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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 































The Western Series of English an© 
American Classics 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 

BY 

GEORGE ELIOT ? pS&uJ , 


Edited 


Tfc N. Morgan 


Professor of English. 
University of Oklahoma 


HARLOW PUBLISHING COMPANY 
OKLAHOMA CITY 
1931 









rza 

.E43 

30 


Copyright, 1931, by 
Harlow Publishing Co. 


©cu 40444 
JUL -3 1931 




CONTENTS 


Page 

Introduction 

Life of George Eliot _ i 

Scenes of Clerical Life _xiv 

MR. GILFIL’S LOVE STORY 

Chapter I _ 1 

Chapter II _ 22 

Chapter III _ 44 

Chapter IV _ 53 

Chapter V _ 72 

Chapter VI _ 89 

Chapter VII _ 93 

Chapter VIII _100 

Chapter IX _105 

Chapter X __109 

Chapter XI _115 

Chapter XII _121 

Chapter XIII _ 131 

Chapter XIV _139 

Chapter XV _143 

Chapter XVI - 146 

Chapter XVII _151 

Chapter XVIII _— 156 

Chapter XIX _159 

Chapter XX - 175 

Chapter XXI _180 

Epilogue --.-183 




























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Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 



INTRODUCTION 

I 

LIFE OF GEORGE ELIOT 

George Eliot began her work as a writer of sto¬ 
ries by observing an important principle of goodwrit¬ 
ing: she practised the virtue of staying at home. 
She found the scenes, actions, and people of her sto¬ 
ries in that part of England where she had spent the 
first thirty-two years <of her life, that part of Eng¬ 
land which through long and loving association had 
become a portion of her own being. “There are,” 
we are told, “portraits in the ‘Clerical Scenes’ ” of 
people George Eliot had known in real life. 1 Al¬ 
though she did not again give direct reproductions 
of actual people, all of her early and perhaps her 
best books are filled with “the suggestions of ex¬ 
perience wrought up into new combinations.” 2 In 
order, therefore, to understand Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 
we must know as much as we can of George Eliot’s 
life and of her preparation for waiting. 

“Nov. 22, 1819.—Mary Ann Evans was born at 
Arbury Farm, at five o’clock this morning.”* Such 

*J. W. Cross, George Eliot’s Life as Related in her Let¬ 
ters and Journals, 3 Vols., New York, 1885, II, 85. 

2 Cross, Life, II, 49. 

•Cross, Life, I, 1. The only time George Eliot ever signed 
her real name to a publication she wrote it Marian Evans 
(Cross, I, 229, 233). In 1855 she formed a union with 
George Henry Lewes, and was known to her friends as Mrs. 
Lewes. In 1880 she married John Walter Cross. Her novels 
were written under the pen-name George Eliot. George 
was chosen because it was Mr. Lewes’s Christian name; 
and “Eliot was a good, mouth-filling, easily pronounced 
word” (Ctoss, I, 310), 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


:. 

11 

is the precise entry made in his diary by Robert 
Evans, recording the birth of his youngest child. 
Mr. Evans took his daughter on November 29 to be 
baptized in the church at Chilvers Coton, the parish 
church, called in Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story, Snepperton 
Church. 

Robert Evans had been brought up to his father’s 
business of builder and carpenter. He possessed 
great strength of mind and body, great energy, will¬ 
power, and, as his daughter said, “extensive knowl¬ 
edge ... of all that is essential to the management 
of large estates.” 4 He was <* man of integrity, firm 
in his beliefs, upholding always what had been es¬ 
tablished in church and in government. These qual¬ 
ities helped him to achieve a solid, practical suc¬ 
cess. They did more, for George Eliot was her 
father’s favorite; she spent much time with him as 
he drove about the country attending to his varied 
business; and these traits of character, by inheri¬ 
tance and example, were strongly impressed upon 
her. 

Mr. Evans was the agent of Francis Newdigate, 
owner of the Arbury estate. Through the warm 
friendship erf Col. Newdigate, son of Francis New¬ 
digate, Robert Evans became the agent for a num¬ 
ber of large landowners. Thus George Eliot had a 
personal interest in the (Newdigate family. The 
most famous member of the family was Sir Roger 
Newdigate (1719-1806), a member of parliament for 
thirty years, an owner of coal mines, and a promoter 
of canals. He spent much, time in the study of an¬ 
tiquities; he rebuilt Arbury Hall in the “Gothic 
style,” and adorned it with works of art and family 
portraits by Romney and Reynolds. Arbury Hall is 
the “Cheverel Manor” of Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story. 


“Cross, Life, I, 8. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


iii 


In 1801 Robert Evans had married Harriott Poyn- 
ton, by whom he had become the father of two chil¬ 
dren, Robert and Lucy. His wife had died in 1807, 
and in 1813 he had married Christiana Pearson. 
Three children were born, Christiana, 1814, Isaac, 
1816, and Mary Ann, 1819. The second Mrs. Evans 
came from a family slightly superior in social stand¬ 
ing to that of her husband’s. She was of “ah affec¬ 
tionate, warm-hearted nature,” 5 but she was also “a 
shrewd, practical person,” 6 with a rather biting and 
active tongue. She had three married sisters living 
in the neighborhood, who were the originals of the! 
Dodson sisters in The Mill on the Floss. Mr. Evans 
probably heard a good deal about the “traditions in 
the Pearson family.” 7 He seems to have been a bit 
hen-pecked. 

In March, 1820, when George Eliot was four 
months old, the Evans family moved to Griff, “a 
charming, red^brick, ivy-covered house on the Ar- 
bury estate.” 8 This country house, in Warwickshire, 
a county in the central or “Midlands” part of Eng¬ 
land, was George Eliot’s home for the first twenty- 
one years of her life. 

“In these midland districts,” wrote George Eliot, 
“the traveller passed rapidly from one phase of 
English life to another; after looking down on a 
village dingy with' coal-dust, noisy with the shak¬ 
ing of looms, he might skirt a parish all of fields, 
high hedges, and deep-rutted lanes; after the coach 
had rattled over the pavement of a manufacturing 
town, the scene of riots and trades-union meetings, 
it would take him in another ten minutes into a rural 

6 Cross, Life, I, 10. 

e Cross, Life, I, 9. 

7 Cross, Life, T. 10. 

8 Cross, Life, I, 2. 




I 


iv 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


region, where the neighborhood of the town was only 
felt in the advantages of a near market for corn, 
cheese, and hay, . . .” 9 

George Eliot lived in a “rural region.” In our 
time, with the automobile, daily mail service, tele¬ 
phone, and radio, country life is not greatly separ¬ 
ated from the bustle and busy-ness of city life. But 
George Eliot grew up in the pre-railroad, pre-tele¬ 
graph days. The country was far away from the city. 
The only connecting link between Griff and the outer 
world was the stage-coach. Life in the country was 
quiet and regular. George Eliot had the time, there¬ 
fore, to learn all about the little and isolated world 
in which she lived. She was endowed, too, with the 
gift of insight, she could see into people, could know 
their characters. She had, besides, a strong mem¬ 
ory, a vivid and sympathetic imagination. The ma¬ 
terial she absorbed while living at Griff, the loving 
knowledge of places and of men and women, she 
later gave back to the world in her books. 

Because of the mother’s ill-health, the Evans chil¬ 
dren were early sent to school. Mary Ann and her 
brother spent part of every day at the cottage of a 
Mrs. Moore, who kept a kindergarten close to Griff 
house. The little girl is said to have learned to 
read with difficulty because she liked better to play 
than to study. Her brother was her dearest com¬ 
panion; upon him she lavished her love. She showed 
“from the earliest years a trait of character most 
marked in her all through life, namely, the absolute 
need of some one person who should be all in all to 
her, and to whom she should be all in all.” 10 

When she was five years old, George Eliot joined 
her sister at Miss Latham’s school in Attleboro, a 

9 George Eliot, Felix Holt, Introduction, 

10 Oross, Life , I. 11- 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


V 


village a mile or two from Griff. Three things she 
later remembered about this school: that she had 
a hard time keeping warm at night, that the girls 
made a great pet of her, and that soon she began to 
be afraid at night. This liability to have “all her 
soul become a quivering fear” she felt to be an im¬ 
portant influence in her life. She became early “an 
old-fashioned child, already living in a world of her 
own imagination, impressionable to her finger-tips, 
and willing to give her views on any subject.” 11 

George Eliot was sent, in her eighth or ninth year, 
with her sister, to Miss Wallington’s school at Nun¬ 
eaton. Her principal teacher, Miss Lewis, became 
also a very intimate friend. Books now were a pas¬ 
sion with the girl; she read everything she could get 
her hands on. Her, religious nature likewise devel¬ 
oped under the influence of Miss Lewis, who was an 
ardent churchwoman. 

When she was twelve years old, George Eliot was 
placed in a school at Coventry, kept by two ladies 
named Franklin, daughters of a Baptist minister. 
The instruction seems to have been excellent, her 
teachers in German, French, and music being espe¬ 
cially good. The girl’s themes in English composition 
were reserved, it is said, by her teacher, Miss Re¬ 
becca Franklin, “for private perusal and enjoyment 
of the teacher, who rarely found anything to cor¬ 
rect.” 12 

"Maggie,” wrote George Eliot, “was a creature 
full of eager, passionate longings for all that was 
beautiful and glad; thirsty for all knowledge; with 
an ear straining after dreamy music that died away 
and would not come near her; with a blind, un¬ 
conscious yearning for something that would link 


“Cross, Life , I, 13. 

12 Cross, Life , I, 18. 



VI 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


together the wonderful impressions of this myste¬ 
rious life, and give her soul a sense of home in it.” 13 
This description may be fittingly applied to George 
Eliot herself as she was in her thirteenth year. Her 
intense nature found expression, while she was with 
the Misses Franklin, in religious activity. 

George Eliot left school finally at the end of 1835. 
Her mother was in failing health, and In the autumn 
of 1836 she died. In the spring of 1837, Christiana 
married. George Elliot became at sixteen the mis¬ 
tress of her father’s home, and as the mistress of 
the house at Griff she remained until she was twenty- 
one. | 

Household work was distasteful to her, but she 
set her mind to her tasks, and became a “good” 
housekeeper. She also visited the poor, and organ¬ 
ized clothing-clubs and other charities. She contin¬ 
ued her study of Italian, German, and music. But 
she was often very lonely and very miserable. Life 
was monotonous, her duties were uninteresting, and 
she had no sympathetic friends. Her brother, whom 
she had adored, liked to spend his leisure hours hunt¬ 
ing. Because of religious convictions, George El¬ 
iot disapproved of this. She felt that “the pursuit 
of pleasure was a snare; dress was vanity; society 
was a danger.”' 4 She even questioned the good of 
novel-reading. Isaac Evans was a High Episco¬ 
palian; his sister at this time was nearer the Bap¬ 
tist faith. Strong family affection held them to¬ 
gether, but there was little understanding or sym¬ 
pathy on the part of either. 

To George Eliot’s intense, dramatizing, and imag¬ 
inative nature her life from sixteen to twenty-one 
seemed not very happy. We need not, however, 

13 George Eliot, Mill on the Floss, Book III, Chap. Y. 

“Cross, Life, I, 23. 



Mr. Gilfii/s Love Story vii 

waste any tears over this. The very monotony and 
regularity of her life gave her the time to read books 
and to study the life around her. Her mind broad¬ 
ened and developed remarkably after she left Griff, 
but the seeds of much of her later thinking and 
writing were planted by the reading she did while 
yet at the quiet old farmhouse. 

In March, 1841, Mr. Robert Evans and his daugh¬ 
ter moved from Griff to a house on the Foleshill 
road, near the city of Coventry. This change brought 
about important developments in George Eliot’s 
life. She was now to form lasting friendships with a 
group of people who not only shared her intellectual 
interests, but who also encouraged and stimulated 
them. The chief of these friends were Mr. Charles 
Bray; his wife, Caroline Hennell Bray, whom he had 
married in 1836; and her sister, Sara Hennell. Mr. 
Bray was a ribbon manufacturer, but he was also 
deeply interested in religious and philosophical prob¬ 
lems. He did not believe in orthodox Christianity, 
and in 1841 he published The Philosophy of Necessity, 
a book which sought to expound his disbelief. Charles 
Hennell, brother of Caroline and Sara, had in 1838 
published An Enquiry Concerning the Origin of Chris¬ 
tianity, in which he attempted to prove that Christ 
was not divine, but was simply a man of extraordinary 
moral power. George Eliot enjoyed reading this book; 
she studied it carefully; made an outline of it; it 
helped, along with her association with the sisters and 
the brother-in-law of the author, in changing her re¬ 
ligious beliefs. 

We need not discuss George Eliot’s religious or 
philosophical convictions except, of course, as these 
affected her work as a writer. Her convictions were 
reached only after long and thoughtful search for 
the truth. “My only desire,” she once wrote, “is to 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


viii 

know the truths my only fear, to cling to error.” 15 
And in her books we find that she believed profound¬ 
ly in self-sacrifice and renunciation, in the sacred 
obligations of duty, in reverence and tolerance for 
the opinions of others, and in love towards our fel¬ 
low man. She believed, too, that men and women 
cannot escape the results of the thoughts they think, 
the words they speak, and the things, they do. 

In January, 1844, George Eliot undertook the work 
of translating from German The Life of Christ by 
David Fredrich Strauss. She wearied of her task, 
becoming “Strauss-sick,” but she stuck to it, and 
the translation was published in 1846. This trans¬ 
lation was of value in training her to' write clearly 
and simply. 

Robert Evans was now in poor health, and his 
daughter’s time was largely occupied in nursing him. 
He died May 31, 1849. From July, 1849, till March, 
1850, Miss Evans lived in Geneva, Switzerland. Here 
she rested, regained her strength, and made a life¬ 
long friend of Monsieur and Madame D’Albert. In 
later years M. D’Albert translated her novels into 
French. 

For sixteen months after her return to England 
Miss Evans lived at Rosehill, the Coventry home of 
the Brays. She began to write critical reviews, and 
soon became acquainted with the editors of the West¬ 
minster Review. In September, 1851, she moved to 
London where until July, 1854, she was assistant ed¬ 
itor of the magazine. She read and revised manu¬ 
scripts submitted for publication, wrote reviews of 
books, and continued her work of translating. 16 Thus 
she gained as an editor further practice and expe¬ 
rience in writing. 


16 Oross, Life , I, 74. 

lfl Cross, Life , I , 233: In 1854 was published her transxa- 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


IX 


But she gained more than this practice and ex¬ 
perience, for she was now introduced into the society 
of men and wnmen who were thinking and writing 
• n England. She formed lasting friendships with 
most of the literary people of her time, such as 
Thomas Carlyle, William M. Thackeray, and Charles 
Dickens. Her intellectual powers now had the op¬ 
portunity to be put to work; and she was in an at¬ 
mosphere which encouraged her genius to grow, ex¬ 
pand, and mature. 

Herbert Spencer, the philosopher, became a close 
Mend. In September, 1851, George Eliot met cas¬ 
ually George Henry Lewes, a brilliant writer of the 
time. Later in the same year Herbert Spencer took 
Lewes to call on Miss Evans; and from this time 
on a warm friendship between them developed. Mr. 
Lewes was married; his wife had been unfaithful; 
but according to English law of that time, a divorce 
was impossible. Both George Eliot and Lewes be¬ 
lieved that he was, in moral right, even if not in 
law, a free man. Acting upon this deep and sin¬ 
cere conviction, in the summer of 1854, they formed 
a union which they always looked upon as a sacred 
marriage. To George Eliot Mr. Lewes was her hus¬ 
band; she referred to herself as Mrs. Lewes; and 
she required her friends to recognize her as Mrs. 
Lewes. Her attitute is perhaps best stated in the 
dedication of the manuscript of Romola in these 
words: 

“To the Husband whose perfect love has been the 
best source of her insight and strength, this manu¬ 
script is given by his devoted wife, the writer/’ 17 

tion of Ludwig Feuerbach’s Essence of Christianity under 
the name Marian Evans. This is the only time her real 
name was ever signed to any publication. 

17 Oross, Life , XI, 256. 





X 


Mr. Gilfil's Love Story 


George Eliot’s life with Lewes was happy. He was 
the person whom she loved utterly. And he, in re¬ 
turn, devoted himself to her. He transacted her bus¬ 
iness, wrote her letters, and protected her from ad¬ 
verse criticism. He recognized her genius; encour¬ 
aged her to write stories; read her books as they 
were composed; made suggestions and criticisms; 
and arranged details of publication. The marriage 
was not a legal one, but the association with Mr. 
Lewes is one reason why English literature has been 
enriched with George Eliot’s novels. 

George Eliot’s first story, The Sad Fortunes of the 
Reverend Amos Barton , was published in January, 
1857. From this time until 1880 she led the busy 
but uneventful life of a novelist. She read, studied, 
wrote her books. She took loving care of Mr. Lewes’s 
children. She did not go out into society, but a 
small circle of friends was devotedly attached to 
her. She and Mr. Lewes made occasional journeys 
to the continent and into different parts of England. 
The home was in London. She suffered from fre¬ 
quent colds and headaches. Often her spirits were 
depressed by the labor she put into her books; and 
by the fear that they would not succeed. But Mr. 
Lewes was always encouraging and always protect¬ 
ive. Her greatest joy was in the love of Mr. Lewes, 
and in the thought that her novels were doing good 
in the world. On the whole, her lifel was busy and 
happy. 

Mr. Lewes died November 28, 1878. George Eliot 
was prostrated with grief. She recovered very slow¬ 
ly. Friends helped to reawaken her interests. 
Among them was J. W. Cross, an American, whom 
she had first met in 1869. In May, 1880, they were 
married. But grief and illness had sapped her 
strength. George Eliot died December 22, 1880. 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


XI 


In what George Eliot wrote about Maggie Tolli¬ 
ver, we have learned a little about what George Eliot 
herself was as a girl. Maggie Tolliver grew up to 
be a very serious and intense woman. So also did 
George Eliot. Her joys and sorrows, her beliefs and 
disbeliefs, her love, and her work, all were matters 
of serious and intense importance to her. In her 
novels she showed a rare gift of humor, but in what 
concerned herself she was a little too solemn. In 
her work as a writer she was greatly encouraged by 
praise, and sometimes needlessly discouraged by ad¬ 
verse criticism. It became one of the duties of Mr. 
Lewes to tell her the favorable things spoken or 
written about her, and to conceal from her the un¬ 
favorable things. She liked to believe that her books 
were doing a great deal of good, and she liked to 
be told that they were doing good. 

These things, however, were slight and merely hu¬ 
manizing weaknesses in the character of an interest¬ 
ing and fascinating woman. To offset them she had 
qualities which won and held for her the love and 
friendship of the best men and women of her time. 
Among these qualities were some which we call mas¬ 
culine, as well as some which we call feminine. She 
had the strength and firmness of mind, the compre¬ 
hensive grasp of details, the power of organization, 
the passionate desire for truth and the patience in 
discovering it, the lack of pettiness, the tolerance 
for others, and the love of praise for her work rather 
than for herself, which we associate with a man. But 
she had, too, the delicacy, insight, and sympathy, the 
shyness and sensitiveness, the desire for protec¬ 
tion, the love of neatness and precision, the practi¬ 
cal common sense, and the willing courage to endure 
and forget one's self for others, which we call wom¬ 
anly. In her books George Eliot preached many fine 



xii 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


sermons teaching us the lessons of duty, renuncia¬ 
tion, love, tolerance, showing us that as a man 
thinks so is he, and that results inevitably follow 
causes; but George Eliot’s own life was perhaps her 
best sermon. 

George Eliot was the most learned woman who 
ever wrote successful novels. She knew many lan¬ 
guages and literatures, music, natural sciences, and 
philosophy. In writing her books, particularly her 
later ones, she not only used her wide and general 
knowledge, but she also made long and careful spec¬ 
ial studies so that her descriptions would be de¬ 
tailed and accurate. The severest fault which many 
readers find in her later books is that they are too 
sermonized and too heavy with learning. Critics 
point out that Eliot’s earlier books, Scenes of Clerical 
Life, Adam Bede, Mill on the Floss, and Silas Marner, 
did not grow out of her acquired learning, but out 
of the experiences and insight and wisdom which 
became a part of her life during the years at Griff 
and Coventry. George Eliot, in truth, is still read 
not because she was both a good preacher and a 
learned woman, but because she could tell an inter¬ 
esting story, because she could make us see the 
places where the events of her stories took place, 
and because she could create living men and women 
who, like real and ordinary men and women, are sad 
and happy, work and are idle, are tempted, resist 
triumphantly or falter miserably, deceive others and 
themselves or keep faith,, love and hate, selfishly 
claim their own or quietly renounce. 

The following is a list of the published works of 
George Eliot: 

1846— The Life of Jesus. Translated from Strauss. 
1854 —Essence of Christianity. Translated from 
Feuerbach. 


MU. Gilfil’s Love Story 


1858— Scenes of Clerical Life . 

1859— Adam Bede. 

1860— The Mill on the Floss. 

1861— Silas Mamer. 

1863— Romola. 

1866 —Felix Holt . 

1868— The Spanish Gypsy. A poem. 

1869— Agatha. A poem. 

1872— Middlemarch. 

1874— Jubal, and other Poems. 

1876— Daniel Deronda. 

1879— Impressions of Theophrastus Such . 


II 

SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE 

A. Why Read and Study 

The best reason for reading. Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 
is that it is “a tale which,” as Sir Philip Sidney once 
described a good story, “holdeth children from play, 
and old men from the chimney corner.” A novel must 
first of all keep us interested. It must make us want 
to know the people who appear in the narrative, what 
they think and say and do when placed in certain sit¬ 
uations. It must keep us interested until their fate 
has been decided. The better we understand a story, 
however, the easier will we become interested in it. 
For many years readers failed to appreciate Chaucer, 
one of the best story-tellers in English literature, be¬ 
cause they did not understand the language in which 
he wrote. Even so wise a man as John Dryden 
thought Chaucer wrote in “the rude sweetness of a 
Scotch tune.” Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story is an interest¬ 
ing tale, but it too will be all the more interesting 
if we will take a little time to study it. The notes in 
the text and the following paragraphs are intended 
solely to let the reader understand more clearly, and 
thus enjoy more deeply, George Eliot’s interesting nar¬ 
rative. 

B. Facts of Publication 

and 

Circumstances of Composition 

The Sad Fortunes of the Reverend Amos Barton , 
written between September 22 and November 5, 
1856, 1 was the first of three stories published un- 

a J. W. Cross, George Eliot's Life as Related in Her Let¬ 
ters and Journals, 3 Yols., New York, 1885, I, 300. 

[xiv] 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


xv 


der the title Scenes of Clerical Life. The second was 
Mr. Gilfirs Love Story , begun on Christmas day, 1856, 
and finished in May, 1857. 2 Janet's Repentance , com¬ 
posed between April 18 and October 9, 1857, 3 was the 
third story. 

The three stories first appeared in Blackwood's Edin¬ 
burgh Magazine in the numbers from January to No¬ 
vember, 1857. All arrangements for the sale and pub¬ 
lication were made by Mr. Lewes. In writing to John 
Blackwood, Lewes praised highly the humor, pathos, 
and vivid presentation of the stories. He explained 
that the author planned to write a series of perhaps 
twelve stories with clergymen as leading characters. 
Mr. Blackwood saw the value of the first story sent 
him, and at once accepted the proposed series. But 
he was an editor and not the husband of George Eliot; 
hence he found certain faults in the ending of Amos 
Barton. “My annoyance,” wrote George Eliot, “at 
Blackwood’s want of sympathy in the first part .... 
determined me to close the series and republish them 
in two volumes.’’ 4 This two volume book, Scenes of 
Clerical Life , appeared in 1858. 5 

George Eliot has left a valuable account of how she 
came to write fiction. It is as follows: “September, 
1856, made a new era in my life, for it was then I 
began to write fiction. It had been a vague dream of 
mine that some time or other I might write a novel; 
and my shadowy conception of what a novel was to 
be, varied, of course, from one epoch of my life to 

^Cross, Life , I, 305, 319. 

3 Cross, Life, I, 323, 336. 

4 Oross, Life, I, 336. 

6 The volumes of 1858 show a few revisions and many 
corrections in proof-reading over the magazine version; it 
has, therefore, been used as the basis for the present edi¬ 
tion. 




XVI 


Mr. Gilfii/s Love Story 


another. But I never went further towards the actual 
writing of the novel than an introductory chapter de¬ 
scribing a Staffordshire village and the life of the 
neighboring farm-houses; and as the years passed on 
I lost hope that I should ever be able to write a novel, 
just as I desponded about everything else in my future 
life. I always thought I was deficient in dramatic 
power, both of construction and dialogue, but I felt 
I should be at my ease in the descriptive parts of a 
novel. My ‘introductory chapter’ .... happened to 
be among the papers I had with me in Germany, and 
one evening at Berlin something led me to read it to 
George [Lewes]. He was struck with it as a bit of 
concrete description, and it suggested to him the pos¬ 
sibility of my being able to write a novel, though he 
distrusted—indeed, disbelieved in—my possession of 
any dramatic power. Still, .... when we came back 
to England, and I had greater success than he ever 
expected in other kinds of writing .... He began to 
say very positively, ‘You must try and write a story,’ 
and when we were at Tenby he urged me to begin at 
once. I deferred it, however, after my usual fashion 
with work that does not present itself as an absolute 
duty. But one morning, as I was thinking what should 
be the subject of my first story, my thoughts merged 
themselves into a dreamy doze, and I imagined my¬ 
self writing a story, of which the title was ‘The Sad 
Fortunes of the Reverend Amos Barton.’ I was soon 
wide awake again and told G. He said, ‘Oh, what 
a capital title!’ and from that time I had settled in 
my mind that this should be my first story. . . . 

“But when we returned to Richmond, I had to 
write my article on ‘Silly Novels,’ and my review 
of Contemporary Literature for the Westminster, so 
that I did not begin my story till September 22. Af¬ 
ter I had begun it, as we were walking in the 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story . xvii 

park, I mentioned to G. that I had thought of a plan 
of writing a series of stories, containing sketches 
drawn from my observation of the clergy, and call¬ 
ing them ‘Scenes from Clerical Life,’ opening with 
‘Amos Barton.’ He at once accepted the notion as a 
good one—fresh and striking; and about a week af¬ 
terwards, when I read him/ the first part of ‘Amos,’ 
he had no longer any doubt about my ability to carry 
out the plan.” 0 

In one of the letters which Lewes wrote to John 
Blackwood, he gave some further details about the 
purposes and objects of the proposed series of tales: 

“It will consist of tales and sketches illustrative 
of the actual life of our country clergy about a, quar¬ 
ter of a century ago, but solely in its human , and not 
at all in its theological aspects, the object being to do 
what has never yet been done in our literature, for 
we have had abundant religious stories, polemical 
and doctrinal, but since the ‘Vicar’ [of Wakefield] 
and Miss Austen, no stories representing the clergy 
like every other class, with its humors, sorrows, and 
troubles of other men. He [the author] begged me 
particularly to add, that .... the tone throughout 
will be sympathetic, and not at all antagonistic.”* 

Mr. Gilfil was started on Christmas day, 1856. Dur¬ 
ing December and January, we are told, Eliot read 
among other books the Ajax of Sophocles, from which 
she quotes in chapter three, and Mansfield Park by 
Jane Austen. Before the story was finished, Mr. and 
Mrs. Lewes, in March and April, 1857, took a trip to 
the Scilly Isles, off the southwest coast of England. 
The epilogue to Mr. Gilfil was written while Eliot 
was staving in the islands. 

Mr. Blackwood objected to the scenes in which 


6 Cross, Life, I, 298. 
7 Cross, Life, I, 301. 



xviii 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


Caterina was made, in her jealous madness, actually 
to take a dagger, and to plan to kill Captain Wy- 
brow. He suggested that this be told as if it were 
a dream rather than a real occurrence. George 
Eliot’s reply to this criticism tells us a great deal 
about her artistic methods and objects: “But I am 
unable,” she wrote, “to alter anything in relation to 
the delineation or development of character, as my 
stories always grow out of my psychological con¬ 
ception of the dramatis personae. For example, the 
behavior of Caterina in the gallery is essential to 
my conception of her nature, and to the develop¬ 
ment of that nature in the plot. My artistic bent 
is directed not at all to the presentation of eminent¬ 
ly irreproachable characters, but to the presenta¬ 
tion of mixed human beings in such a way as to 
call forth tolerant judgment, pity, and sympathy. 
And I cannot stir a step aside from what I feel to 
be true in character. If anything strikes you as un¬ 
true to human nature in my delineations, I shall be 
very glad if you will point it out to me, that I may 
reconsider the matter. But, alas! inconsistencies 
and weaknesses are not untrue.” 8 

What has thus far been written may be summar¬ 
ized in this way: 

1. George Eliot was sure from the beginning of 
her ability to write descriptions, of her ability to 
give us pictures in words of places and people. 

2. She doubted her dramatic power, that is, her 
power to tell stories and to write about men and 
women in such a way as to make readers believe in 
the reality of the actions and characters in her 
stories. 

3. Her first story, Amos Barton , convinced Mr. 


8 Cross, Life, I, 310. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story xix 

Lewes, Mr. Blackwood, and herself that she pos- 
I sessed this dramatic power. 

4. Her main object in Mr. GilfiVs Love Story was 
i to tell us a story of “actual life'’ as she had observed 

it. She did not wish to tell us a tale of what life 
ought to be, or of what we would like to have it be, 
but of what life really was in her time. 

5. She was primarily interested in average hu¬ 
man beings, with all the mixture of good and bad 
in them. And she was determined to be truthful to 
the facts of this average human nature. 

Readers of Mr. GilfiVs Love Story will find that it 
illustrates the qualities named in this summary. 

C. Clerical Backgrounds. 

Since Mr. Gilfil was a clergyman of the Church 
of England, a statement of certain facts about the 
Church, and the definitions of some of the terms 
used, will help the student gain a better understand¬ 
ing of the narrative. 

In England the Protestant Episcopal Church is 
the “Established” Church. It is the State Religion, 
protected and established by law. The King of Eng¬ 
land is King on condition of being a member of the 
Episcopal Church. Certain bishops of the Church 
have the right to sit in the House of Lords, and thus 
to take part in the government of the Kingdom. Ref¬ 
erences, therefore, to the “Establishment” or simply 
to the “Church,” or to “Churchmen,” are references to 
the Episcopal Church or to the members of that 
church. 

The government does not appropriate money for 
the support of the Church, but the Church possesses 
a great deal of wealth in the form of lands and 
other properties. Moreover, the people of England 
pay to the Church taxes, called tithes, upon the year- 




XX 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


ly income from lands and industry. At the present 
time the tithes are paid largely in the form of a 
money rent charge fixed upon lands, the amount be¬ 
ing adjusted annually by the average price of grain. 

“Churchmen” are members of the Episcopal 
Church. The members of other religious bodies, 
such as Methodists, Baptists, and Presbyterians, are 
“Dissenters,” that is, they dissent from the doctrines 
of the Established Church. In the time of Mr. Gilfil’s 
Love Story their places of worship were called chapels, 
not churches. 

During the nineteenth century various reform 
movements disturbed the peace of the Established 
Church, and the Dissenters likewise grew in num¬ 
bers, wealth, and importance. These reform move¬ 
ments form a large; part of the background for 
Amos Barton and Janet’s Repentance, but in the time 
of Mr. Gilfil—1788M790—they had not begun. Tiu 
Dissenters, too, were relatively unimportant. It is, 
therefore, unnecessary to discuss them further. 

The head of the English Church is the Archbishop 
of Canterbury (see the reference in chapter XI), who 
is sometimes called the Primate of England. Rank¬ 
ing next to him is the Archbishop of York. These 
two clerics are aided in the government of the 
Church by bishops of the various diocese or districts. 
An Episcopal diocese is divided, for the purpose of 
church government, into parishes. A parish has its 
own church and its own clergyman to whom its tithes 
are paid. A church office supported by the income 
from tithes or other ecclesiastical revenues is called 
a living (see chapter IV). The holder of such a living 
is referred to as the incumbent. 

In some parishes the control of church revenues, 
appointment of clergymen, and other matters, is in 
the hands of a corporation. Some livings, on the 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


xxi 


other hand, are included within the lands of a wealthy 
nobleman. In such cases, and this is true of Mr. Gil- 
fil’s Love Story , the appointment of the clergyman is 
determined by the land-owner. 

References are made in Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story to 
the following religious offices: 

Chaplain (chapter IV)—A chaplain is a clergyman 
whose duty it is to conduct services in a legislative or 
other assembly, or in the household of a nobleman or 
king. At the time of the story, Mr. Gilfil was chap¬ 
lain, personal spiritual adviser, for Sir Christopher. 

Curate (chapter I)—Formerly a clergyman in 
charge of the spiritual cure or care of souls. At pres¬ 
ent in the English Church he is an assistant to or 
deputy of a rector or vicar. He receives a fixed sal¬ 
ary—usually a very small one. 

Rector (chapters XII and XXI)—A parson who has 
charge of a parish. The rector owns and receives the 
revenues derived from tithes or other sources. 

Vicar (chapter I)—A vicar is a substitute or a rep¬ 
resentative. As the term is used in the English 
Church, however, a vicar is not a substitute for a rec¬ 
tor, but rather a parish clergyman somewhat lower 
in rank than a rector; one whose income is a fixed 
salary instead of being dependent upon tithes. The 
rector, or the spiritual corporation that controls the 
ecclesiastical revenues, collects the tithes, and pays 
the vicar his salary. This seems to have been the 
case with Mr. Gilfil, who at the time of his death 
was Vicar of Shepperton and Knebley. We are told 
that one of the reasons for the Vicar's popularity with 
the farmers at Knebley was that he did not collect 
the tithes. 






Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 

CHAPTER I 

When old Mr. Gilfil died, thirty years ago, there 
was general sorrow in Shepperton; and if black 
cloth had not been hung round the pulpit and read¬ 
ing-desk, 1 by order of his nephew and principal leg¬ 
atee, the parishioners would certainly have sub¬ 
scribed the necessary sum out of their own pockets, 
rather than allow isuch a tribute of respect to be 
wanting. All the farmers’ wives brought out their 
black bombasines; 2 and Mrs. Jennings, at the 
Wharf, 3 by appearing the first Sunday after Mr. Gil¬ 
fil’s death in her salmon-coloured ribbons and green 
shawl, excited the severest remark. To be sure, Mrs. 
Jennings was a new-comer, and town-bred, so that 
she could hardly be expected to have very clear no¬ 
tions of what was proper; but, as Mrs. Higgins 4 ob¬ 
served in an under-tone to Mrs. Parrot when they 
were coming out of church, “Her husband, who’d 

A desk, called also a lectern, from which the Scripture 

lessons forming a portion of various church services are 
read. 

3 A twilled or corded dress material, of silk and worsted; 
expensive. 

3 Name of a tavern in the town. 

4 When this story first appeared, in Blackwood's Magazine , 
1857, Mr. and Mrs. Higgins were called Liggins. This was 
perhaps a typographical error because the name was 
changed in the first edition of Scenes Of Clerical Life, 1858. 
But in 1859, after George Eliot had won fame as the 
author of Adam Bede, a Mr. Liggins, of Nuneaton, claimed 
to be the author of her stories. He explained his poverty 
by saying that he was giving his novels away. Many 
people for a time believed in him. 

[ 1 ] 



2 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


been born i’ the parish, might ha’ told her better.” 
An unreadiness to put on black on all available oc¬ 
casions, or too great an alacrity in putting it off, 
argued, in Mrs. Higgins’s opinion, a dangerous levity 
of character, and an unnatural insensibility to the 
essential fitness of things. 

“Some folks can’t a-bear to put off their colours,” 
she remarked; “but that was never the way i’ my 
family. Why Mrs. Parrot, from the time I was mar¬ 
ried till Mr. Higgins died, nine year ago come Can¬ 
dlemas, 5 I niver was out o’ black two year together!” 

“Ah,” said Mrs. Parrot, who was conscious of in¬ 
feriority in this respect, “there isn’t many families 
as have had so many deaths as yours, Mrs. Higgins.” 

Mrs. Higgins, who was an elderly widow “well 
left,” reflected with complacency that Mrs. Parrot’s 
observation was no more than just, and that Mrs. 
Jennings very likely belonged to a family which had 
had no funerals to speak of. 

Even dirty Dame Fripp, who was a very rare 
church-goer, had been to Mrs. Hackit to beg a bit 
of old crape, and with this sign of grief pinned on 
her little coal-scuttle bonnet, was seen dropping her 
curtsy opposite the reading-desk. This manifesta¬ 
tion of respect towards Mr. Gilfil’s memory on the 
part of Dame Fripp had no theological bearing what¬ 
ever. It was due to an event which had occurred 
some years back, and which, I am sorry to say, had 
left that grimy old lady as indifferent to the means 
of grace as ever. Dame Fripp kept leeches, and was 
understood to have such remarkable influence over 
those wilful animals in inducing them to bite under 
the most unpromising circumstances, that though 
her own leeches were usually rejected, from a sus- 

B Feast of Purification or Presentation of Christ in the 
Temple, held on February 2. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


3 


picion that they had lost their appetite, she herself 
was constantly called in to apply the more lively in¬ 
dividuals furnished from Mr. Pilgrim’s surgery, 
when, as was very often the case, one of that clever 
man’s paying patients was attacked with inflamma¬ 
tion. Thus Dame Fripp, in addition to “property” 
supposed to yield her no less than half-a-crown a- 
week, was in the receipt of professional fees, the 
gross amount of which was vaguely estimated by 
her neighbors as “pouns an’ pouns.” Moreover, she 
drove a brisk trade in lollipop with epicurean* ur¬ 
chins, who recklessly purchased that luxury at the 
rate of two hundred per cent. Nevertheless, with 
all these notorious sources of income, the shameless 
old woman constantly pleaded poverty, and begged 
for scraps at Mrs. Hackit’s, who, though she always 
said Mrs. Fripp was “as false as two folks/’ 6 7 and no 
better than a miser and a heathen, had yet a leaning 
towards her as an old neighbour. 

“There’s that case-hardened old Judy 8 a-coming 
after the tea-leaves again,” Mrs. Hackit would say; 
“an’ I’m fool enough to give ’em her, though Sally 
wants ’em all the while to sweep the floors with!” 

Such was Dame Fripp, whom Mr. Gilfil, riding 
leisurely in top-boots and spurs from doing duty at 
Knebley one warm Sunday afternoon, observed sit¬ 
ting in the dry ditch near her cottage, and by her 
side a large pig, who, with that ease and confidence 

6 A follower of Epicurus, a Greek philosopher. 341-270 B. 
C.; a lover of good eating 

7 Doubly false. 

8 Case-hardened means shameless. The allusion is to iron 
toughened by bringing the surface into contact with char¬ 
coal in a case or closed box. Old Judy in English dialect 
is a term of contempt, a slut. Tea leaves were sometimes 
saved to be used in. laying the dust when housekeepers 
swept. 



4 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


belonging to perfect friendship, was lying with his 
head in her lap, and making no effort to play the 
agreeable beyond an occasional grunt. 

“Why, Mistress Fripp,” said the Vicar, “I didn’t 
know you had such a fine pig. You’ll have some rare 
flitches* at Christmas!” 

“Eh, God forbid! My son gev him me two ’ear 
ago, an’ he’s been company to me iver sin’. I couldn’t 
find i’ my heart to part wi’m, if I niver knowed the 
taste o’ bacon-fat again.” 

“Why, he’ll eat his head off, and yours too. How 
can you go on keeping a pig, and making nothing 
by him,?” 

“0, he picks a bit hisself wi’ rootin’, and I dooant 
mind doing wi’out to gie him summat. A bit o’ com¬ 
pany’s meat an’ drink too, an’ he toilers me about, 
and grunts when I spake to’m, just like a Chris¬ 
tian.” 

Mr. Gilfil laughed, and I am obliged to admit that 
he said good-by to Dame Fripp without asking her 
why she had not been to church, or making the 
slightest effort for her spiritual edification. But the 
next day he ordered his man David to take her a 
great piece of bacon, with a message, saying, the 
parson wanted to make sure that Mrs. Fripp would 
know the taste of baeon-fat again. So, when Mr. 
Gilfil died, Dame Fripp manifested her gratitude and 
reverence in the simple dingy fashion I have men¬ 
tioned. 

You already suspect that the Vicar did not shine 
in the more spiritual functions of his office; and 
indeed, the utmost I can say for him in this respect 
is, that he performed those functions with undeviat- 
ing attention to brevity and despatch. He had a 
large heap of short sermons, rather yellow and 


9 Sides of a hog, salted, usually hung up and thus cured. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


5 


worn at the edges, from which he took two every 
Sunday, securing perfect impartiality in the selec¬ 
tion by taking them as they came without reference 
to topics; and having preached one of these sermons 
at Shepperton in the morning, he mounted his horse 
and rode hastily with the other in his pocket to Kneb- 
ley, where he officiated in a wonderful little church, 
with a checkered pavement which had once rung to the 
iron tread of military monks, 10 with coats of arms 
in clusters on the lofty roof, marble warriors and 
their wives without noses occupying a large propor¬ 
tion of the area, and the twelve apostles, with their 
heads very much on one side, holding didactic rib¬ 
bons, painted in fresco on the walls. Here, in an 
absence of mind to which he was prone, Mr. Gilfil 
would sometimes forget to take off his spurs before 
putting on his surplice, and only become aware of 
the omission by feeling something mysteriously 
tugging at the skirts of that garment as he stepped 
into the reading-desk. But the Knebley farmers 
would as soon have thought of criticising the moon 
as their pastor. He belonged to the course of na¬ 
ture, like markets and toll-gates and dirty bank¬ 
notes; and being a vicar, his claim on their venera¬ 
tion had never been counteracted by an exasperat¬ 
ing claim on their pockets. Some of them, who did 
not indulge in the superfluity of a covered cart with¬ 
out springs, had dined half an hour earlier than 
usual—that is to say, at twelve o’clock—in order to 
have time for their long walk through miry lanes, 
and present themselves duly in their places at two 
o’clock, when Mr. Oldinport and Lady Felicia, to 
whom Knebley Church was a sort of family temple, 

10 Military orders formed in the twelfth century to protect 
pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land. The Knights 
Templar were the most famous of these Christian soldiers. 



6 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


made their way among the bows and curtsies of their 
dependents to a carved and canopied pew in the 
chancel, diffusing as they went a delicate odour of 
Indian roses on the unsusceptible nostrils of the con¬ 
gregation. 

The farmers’ wives and children sate on the dark 
oaken benches, but the husbands usually chose the 
distinctive dignity of a stall under one of the twelve 
apostles, where, when the alternation of prayers and 
responses had given place to the agreeable mon¬ 
otony of the sermon, Paterfamilias might be seen 
or heard sinking into a pleasant doze, from which 
he infallibly woke up at the sound of the conclud¬ 
ing doxology. And then they made their way back 
again through the miry lanes, perhaps almost as 
much the better for this simple weekly tribute to 
what they knew of good and right, as many a more 
wakeful and critical congregation of the present 
day. 

Mr. Gilfil, too, used to make his way home in the 
later years of his life, for he had given up the habit 
of dining at Knebley Abbey on a Sunday, having, I 
am sorry to say, had a very bitter quarrel with Mr. 
Oldinport, the cousin and predecessor of the Mr. 
Oldinport who flourished in the Rev. Amos Barton’s 
time. 11 That quarrel was a sad pity, for the two had 
had many a good day’s hunting together when they 
were younger, and in those friendly times not a few 
members of the hunt envied Mr. Oldinport the excel¬ 
lent terms he was on with his Vicar; for, as Sir Jasper 

™The Sad Fortunes of the Reverend Amos Barton was 
the first story written in the Scenes of Clerical Life. Though 
his story was written first, Mr. Barton came to Shepperton 
as curate some five years after Mr. Gilfil’s death. Mr. and 
Mrs. Hackit, Mr. Pilgrim, Mrs. Patten, and the younger 
Mr. Oldinport all appear in The Sad Fortunes. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


7 


Sitwell observed, “next to a man’s wife, there’s no¬ 
body can be such an infernal plague to you as a par¬ 
son, always under your nose on your own estate.” 

I fancy the original difference which led to the 
rupture was very slight; but Mi 4 . Gilfil was of ex¬ 
tremely caustic turn, his satire having a flavour of 
originality which was quite wanting in his sermons; 
and as Mr. Oldinport’s armour of conscious virtue 
presented some considerable and conspicuous gaps, 
the Vicar’s keen-edged retorts probably made a few 
incisions too deep to be forgiven. Such, at least, 
was the view of the case presented by Mr. Hackit, 
who knew as much of the matter as any third per¬ 
son. For, the very week after the quarrel, when 
presiding at the annual dinner of the Association 
for the Prosecution of Felons, held at the Oldinport 
Arms, he contributed an additional zest to the con¬ 
viviality on that occasion by informing the company 
that “the parson had given the squire a lick with the 
rough side of his tongue.” The detection of the 
person or persons who had driven off Mr. Parrot’s 
heifer, could hardly have been more welcome news 
to the Shepperton tenantry, with whom Mr. Oldin¬ 
port was in the worst odour as a landlord, having 
kept up his rents in spite of falling prices, and not 
being in the least stung to emulation by paragraphs 
in the provincial newspapers, stating that the Hon¬ 
ourable Augustus Purwell, or Viscount Blethers, had 
made a return of ten per cent on their last rent-day. 
The fact was, Mr. Oldinport had not the slightest 
intention of standing for Parliament, whereas he had 
the strongest intention of adding to his unentailed 
estate. 12 Hence, to the Shepperton farmers it was 
as good as lemon with their grog to know that the 
Vicar had thrown out sarcasms against the Squire’s 


“Not limited in ownership. 



8 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


charities, as little better than those of the man who 
stole a goqse, and gave away the giblets in alms. 13 
For Shepperton, you observe, was in a state of Attic 
culture 14 compared with Knebley; it had turnpike 
roads and a public opinion, whereas, in the Boeotian 
Knebley, men’s minds and wagons alike moved in 
the deepest of ruts, and the landlord was only grum¬ 
bled at as a necessary and unalterable evil, like the 
weather, the weevils, and the turnip-fly. 

Thus in Shepperton this breach with Mr. Oldin- 
port tended only to heighten that good understand¬ 
ing which the Vicar had always enjoyed with the 
rest of his parishioners, from the generation whose 
children he had christened a quarter of a century 
before, down to that hopeful generation represented 
by little Tommy Bond, who had recently quitted 
frocks and trousers for the severe simplicity of a 
tight suit of corduroys, relieved by numerous brass 
buttons. Tommy was a saucy boy, impervious to all 
impressions of reverence, and excessively addicted 
to humming-tops and marbles, with which recrea¬ 
tive resources hq was in the habit of immoderately 
distending the pockets of his corduroys. One day, 
spinning his top on the garden-walk, and seeing the 
Vicar advance directly towards it, at that exciting 
moment when it was beginning to “sleep” magnifi¬ 
cently, he shouted out with all the force of his lungs 
—“Stop! don’t knock my top down, now!” From that 
day “little Corduroys” had been an especial favour- 
rite with Mr. Gilfil, who delighted to provoke his 

13 English proverb: “He gains wealth by overreaching, 
and salves his conscience by giving small sums in charity.” 

]4 The culture of Athens, the highest in ancient Greece. 
The inhabitants of Boetia, a district in central Greece, 
were notorious for their dullness. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


9 


ready scorn and wonder by putting questions which 
gave Tommy the meanest opinion of his intellect. 

“Well, little Corduroys, have they milked the geese 
to-day?” 

“Milked the geese! why, they don’t milk the geese, 
ye’r silly!” 

“No! dear heart! why, how do the goslings live; 
then?” 

The nutriment of goslings rather transcending 
Tommy’s observations in natural history, he feigned 
to understand this question in an exclamatory rather 
than an interrogatory sense, and became absorbed 
in winding up his top. 

“Ah, I see you don’t know, how the goslings live! 
But did you notice how it rained sugar-plums yes¬ 
terday?” (Here Tommy became attentive.) “Why, 
they fell into' my pocket as I rode along. You look 
in my pocket and see if they didn’t.” 

Tommy, without waiting to discuss the alleged 
antecedent, lost no time in ascertaining the pres¬ 
ence of the agreeable consequent, for he had a well- 
founded belief in the advantages of diving into the 
Vicar’s pocket. Mr. Gilfil called it his wonderful 
pocket, because, as he delighted to tell the “young 
shavers” and “two-shoes”—so he called all little 
boys and girls—whenever he put pennies into it, 
they turned into sugar-plums or gingerbread, or 
some other nice thing. Indeed, little Bessie Parrot, 
a flaxen-headed “two-shoes,” very white and fat as 
to her neck, always had the admirable directness and 
sincerity to salute him with the question—“What 
zoo dot in zoo pottet?” 

You can imagine, then, that the christening din¬ 
ners were none the less merry for the presence of 
the parson. The farmers relished his society par¬ 
ticularly, for he could not only smoke his pipe, and 


10 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


season the details of parish affairs with abundance 
of caustic jokes and proverbs, but, as Mr. Bond of¬ 
ten said, no man knew more than the Vicar about 
the breed of cows and horses. He had grazing-land 
of his own about five miles off, which a bailiff, 35 os¬ 
tensibly a tenant, farmed under his direction; and 
to ride backwards and forwards, and look after the 
buying and selling of stock, was the old gentleman’s 
chief relaxation, now his hunting days were over. 
To hear him discussing the respective merits of the 
Devonshire breed and the short-horns, or the last 
foolish decision of the magistrates about a pauper, 
a superficial observer might have seen little differ¬ 
ence, beyond his superior shrewdness, between the 
Vicar and his bucolic parishioners; for it was his 
habit to approximate his accent and mode of speech 
to theirs, doubtless because he thought it a mere 
frustration of the purposes of language to talk of 
“shearhogs” 16 and “ewes” to men who habitually 
said “sharrags” and “yowes.” Nevertheless the far¬ 
mers themselves were perfectly aware of the distinc¬ 
tion between them and the parson, and had not at 
all the less belief in him as a gentleman and a 
clergyman for his easy speech and familiar man¬ 
ners. Mrs. Parrot smoothed her apron and set her 
cap right with the utmost solicitude when she saw 
the Vicar coming, made him her deepest curtsy, and 
every Christmas had a fat turkey ready to send him 
with her “duty.” And in the most gossiping col¬ 
loquies with Mr. Gilfil, you might have observed 
that both men and women “minded their words,” 
and never became indifferent to his approbation. 

The same respect attended him in his strictly cler- 

15 An overseer. 

“Name given to a lamb after the first shearing and until 
the second (English dialect). 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


11 


ical functions. The benefits of baptism were sup¬ 
posed to be somehow bound up with Mr. Gilfil’s per¬ 
sonality, so metaphysical a distinction as that be¬ 
tween a man and his office being, as yet, quite for¬ 
eign to the mind of a good Shepperton churchman, 
savouring, he would have thought, of Dissent on the 
very face of it. Miss Selina Parrot put off her mar¬ 
riage a whole month when Mr. Gilfil had an attack 
of rheumatism, rather than be married in a make¬ 
shift manner by the Milby curate. 

“We’ve had a very good sermon this morning,” 
was the frequent remark, after hearing one of the 
old yellow series, heard with all the more satisfac¬ 
tion because it had been heard for the twentieth 
time; for to minds on the Shepperton level it is rep¬ 
etition, not novelty, that produces the strongest ef¬ 
fect; and phrases, like tunes, are a long time mak¬ 
ing themselves at home in the brain. 

Mr. Gilfil’s sermons, as you may imagine, were 
not of a highly doctrinal, still less of a polemical, 
cast. They perhaps did not search the conscience 
very powerfully; for you remember that to Mrs. Pat¬ 
ten, 17 who had listened to them thirty years, the an- 

17 At the time of The Sad Fortunes of the Reverend Amos 
Barton Mrs. Patten was about eighty. She had been a 
lady’s maid, married for her beauty, and she was a trifle 
miserly. Mrs. Patten disliked Mr. Barton because he had 
asked her to increase her subscription of 20£ to the re¬ 
building of Shepperton Church; and because, she declared, 
he talked “about nothing but my sins and my need o 
marcy.” 

Between the time of Mr. Barton and Mr. Gilfil, whom 
he succeeded, a reform movement had developed within 
the English Church, a movement which stressed the sole 
authority of the Bible and emphasized the need of personal 
conversion. Mr. Barton was a zealous worker in this move¬ 
ment. He was a more energetic and annoying preacher 



12 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


nouncement that she was a sinner appeared an un¬ 
civil heresy; but, on the other hand, they made no 
unreasonable demand on the Shepperton intellect— 
amounting, indeed, to little more than an expansion 
of the concise thesis, that those who do wrong will 
find it the worse for them; and those who do well 
will find it the better for them; the nature of wrong¬ 
doing being exposed in special sermons against ly¬ 
ing, backbiting, anger, slothfulness, and the like; 
and well-doing being interpreted as honesty, truth¬ 
fulness, charity, industry, and other common vir¬ 
tues, lying quite on the surface of life, and having 
very little to 1 do with deep spiritual doctrine. Mrs. 
Patten understood that if she turned out ill-crushed 
cheeses, a just retribution awaited her; though, I 
fear, she made no particular application of the ser¬ 
mon on backbiting. Mrs. Hackit expressed herself 
greatly edified by the sermon on honesty, the allusion 
to the unjust weight and deceitful balance having a 
peculiar lucidity for her, owing to a recent dispute 
with her grocer; but I am not aware that she ever 
appeared to be much struck by the sermon on anger. 

As to any suspicion that Mr. Gilfil did not dis¬ 
pense the pure Gospel, or any strictures on his doc¬ 
trine and mode of delivery, such thoughts never 
visited the minds of the Shepperton parishioners— 
of those very parishioners who, ten or fifteen years 
later, showed themselves extremely critical of Mr. 
Barton’s discourses and demeanor. But in the in¬ 
terim they had tasted that dangerous fruit of the 
tree of knowledge—innovation, which is well known 
to open the eyes, often in an uncomfortable man¬ 
ner. At present, to find fault with the sermon was 

than Mr. Gilfil, who had been content with the practical 
religion George Eliot here describes, and who did not con¬ 
cern himself with theological arguments. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


13 


regarded as almost equivalent to- finding fault with 
religion itself. One Sunday, Mr. Hackit’s nephew, 
Master Tom Stokes, a flippant town youth, greatly 
scandalised his excellent relatives by declaring that 
he could write as good a sermon as Mr. Gilfil’s; 
whereupon Mr. Hackit sought to reduce the presump¬ 
tuous youth to utter confusion, by offering him a 
sovereign if he would fulfil his vaunt. The sermon 
was written, however; and though it was not ad¬ 
mitted to be anywhere within reach of Mr. Gilfil’s, 
it was yet so astonishingly like a sermon, having a 
text, three divisions, and a concluding exhortation 
beginning “and now, my brethren,” that the sov¬ 
ereign, though denied formally, was bestowed in¬ 
formally, and the sermon was pronounced, when 
Master Stokes’s back was turned, to be “an uncom¬ 
mon diver thing.” 

The Rev. Mr. Pickard, indeed, of the Independent 
Meeting, 18 had stated, in a sermon preached at Roth- 
erby, for the reduction of a debt on iNlew Zion, built, 
with an exuberance of faith and a deficiency of 
funds, by seceders from the original Zion, that he 
lived in a parish where the Vicar was very “dark;” 19 
and in the prayers he addressed to his own congre¬ 
gation, he was in the habit of comprehensively al¬ 
luding to the parishioners outside the chapel walls, 
as those who, “Gallio-like, cared for none of these 
things.” 20 But I need hardly say that no church- 

18 A Congregationalist; one who believes in the independ¬ 
ence of each church or congregation. 

30 Unenlightened. 

^Lucius Junius Gallio, Roman pro-consul of Achaia, 5R 
A. D. When he dismissed the complaint of the Jews against 
St. Paul at Corinth, and the ruler of the synagogue was 
beaten, we are told that he “cared for none of these things,” 
because such matters did not concern him. (Acts, XVIII: 
37 ). 



14 


Mr. Gilfii/s Love Story 


goer* 1 ever came within earshot of Mr. Pickard. 

It was not to the Shepperton farmers only that 
Mr. Gilfil’s society was acceptable; he was a wel¬ 
come guest at some of the' best houses in that part 
of the country. Old Sir Jasper Sitwell would have 
been glad to see him every week; and if you had 
seen him conducting Lady Sitwell in to dinner, or 
had heard him talking to her with quaint yet grace¬ 
ful gallantry, you would have inferred that the ear¬ 
lier period of his life had been passed in more state¬ 
ly society than could be found in Shepperton, and 
that his slipshod chat and homely manners were but 
like weather-stains on a fine old block of marble, al¬ 
lowing you still to see here and there the fineness of 
the grain, and the delicacy of the original tint. But 
in his later years these visits became a little too 
troublesome to the old gentleman, and he was rarely 
to be found anywhere of an evening beyond the 
bounds of his own parish—most frequently, indeed, 
by the side of his own sitting-room fire, smoking his 
pipe, and maintaining the pleasing antithesis of dry¬ 
ness and moisture by an occasional sip of gin-and- 
water. 31 

Here I am aware that I have run the risk of alien¬ 
ating all my refined lady readers, and utterly anni- 

21 One who attends the Episcopal Church, the Established 
Church of England. The meeting places of others, such 
as Methodists, Baptists, and Independents, were calleu 
“chapels.” Mr. Gilfil was vicar of Shepperton Church, 
Mr. Pickard was pastor of New Zion Chapel, the meeting 
house of the Congregationalists at Rotherby, a near-by 
town. The word chapel is also applied to the place of 
worship in a palace; and sometimes to a small church 
subordinate to the parish church. 

cheap, alcoholic drink, much used by the poorer 
classes. At the time of this story it was not considered 
wrong for a clergyman to drink moderately. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


15 


hilating any curiosity they may have felt to know 
the details of Mr. Gilfil’s love-story. Gin-and-water! 
foh! you may as well ask us to interest ourselves 
in the romance of a tallow-chandler, who mingles 
the image of his beloved with short dips and moulds. 

But in the first place, dear ladies, allow me to 
plead that gin-and-water, like obesity, or baldness, 
or the gout, does not exclude a vast amount of ante¬ 
cedent romance, any more than the neatly executed 
“fronts” 23 which you may some day wear, will exclude 
your present possession of less expensive braids. 
Alas, alas! we poor mortals are often little better 
than wood-ashes—there is small sign of the sap, and 
the leafy freshness, and the bursting buds that were 
once there; but wherever we see wood-ashes, we 
know that all that early fulness of life must have 
been. I, at least, hardly ever look at a bent old man, 
or a wizened old woman, but I see also, with my 
mind’s eye, that Past of which they are the shrunken 
remnant, and the unfinished romance of rosy cheeks 
and bright eyes seems sometimes of feeble interest 
and significance, compared with that drama of hope 
and love winch has long ago reached its catastrophe, 
and left the poor soul, like a dim and dusty stage, 
with all its sweet garden-scenes and fair perspect¬ 
ives, overturned and thrust out of sight. 

. In the second place, let me assure you that Mr. 
Gilfil’s potations of gin-and-water were quite moder¬ 
ate. His nose was not rubicund; on the contrary, 
his white hair hung around a pale and venerable 
face. He drank it chiefly, I believe, because it was 
cheap; and here I find myself alighting on another 
of the Vicar’s weaknesses, which, if I cared to paint 


33 A sort of half-wig worn by women with cap or bonnet, 
to cover only the front part of the head. 



16 


Mr. Gilfii/s Love Story 


a flattering portrait rather than a faithful one , 24 I 
might have chosen to suppress. It is undeniable 
that, as the years advanced, Mr. Gilfil became, as 
Mr. Hackit observed, more and more “close-fisted,” 
though the growing propensity showed itself rather 
in the parsimony of his personal habits, than in 
withholding help from the needy. He was saving— 
so he represented the matter to himself—for a neph¬ 
ew, the only son of a sister who had been the dear¬ 
est object, all but one, in his life. “The lad,” he 
thought, “will have a nice little fortune to begin life 
with, and will bring his pretty young wife some day 
to see the spot where his old uncle lies. It will per¬ 
haps be all the better for his hearth that mine was 
lonely.” 

Mr. Gilfil was a bachelor, then? 

That is the conclusion to which you would prob¬ 
ably have come if you had entered his sitting-room, 
where the bare tables, the large old-fashioned horse¬ 
hair chairs, and the threadbare Turkey carpet per¬ 
petually fumigated with tobacco, seemed to tell a 
story of wifeless existence that was contradicted by 
no portrait, no piece of embroidery, no faded bit of 
pretty triviality, hinting of taper-fingers and small 
feminine ambitions. And it was here that Mr. Gilfil 
passed his evenings, seldom with other society than 
that of Ponto, his old brown setter, who, stretched 
out at full length on the rug with, his nose between 
his fore-paws, would wrinkle his brows and lift up 
his eyelids every now and then, to exchange a glance 
of mutual understanding with his master. But there 
was a chamber in Shepperton Vicarage which told 
a different story from that bare and cheerless dining- 

2 *This desire to be truthful and faithful rather than flat¬ 
tering and romantic is a fundamental characteristic of 
George Eliot’s works. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


17 


room—a chamber never entered by any one besides 
Mr. Gilfil and old Martha the housekeeper, who, with 
David her husband as groom and gardener, formed 
the Vicar’s entire establishment. The blinds of this 
chamber were always down, except once a-quarter, 
when Martha entered that she might air and clean 
it. She always asked Mr. Gilfil for the key, which 
he kept locked up in his bureau, and returned it to 
him when she had finished her task. 

It was a touching sight that the daylight streamed 
in upon, as Martha drew aside the blinds and thick 
curtains, and opened the Gothic 25 casement of the 
oriel window! On the little dressing-table there was 
a dainty looking-glass in a carved and gilt frame; 
bits of wax-candle were still in the branched sockets 
at the sides, and on one of these branches hung a 
little black lace kerchief; a faded satin pin-cushion, 
with the pins rusted in it, a scent-bottle, and a large 
green fan, lay on the table; and on a dressing-box 
by the side of the glass was a work-basket, and an 
unfinished baby-cap, yellow with age, lying in it. 
Two gowns, of a fashion long forgotten, were hang¬ 
ing on nails against the door, and a pair of tiny red 
slippers, with a bit of tarnished silver embroidery 
on them, were standing at the foot of the bed. Two 
or three water-colour drawings, views of Naples, 
hung upon the walls; and over the mantel-piece, 
above some bits of rare old china, two miniatures in 
oval frames. One of these miniatures represented 
a young man about seven-and-twenty, with a san¬ 
guine complexion, full lips, and clear candid gray 

25 The pointed arch is the most conspicuous characteristic 
of the Gothic architecture which prevailed in Europe from 
about 1200 A. D. to 1500 A. D. An oriel window is one 
built out from a wall and resting on a bracket or other 

support. 



18 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


eyes. The other was the likeness of a girl, probably 
not more than eighteen, with small features, thin 
cheeks, a pale southern-looking complexion, and 
large dark eyes. The gentleman wore powder; the 
lady had her dark hair gathered away from her face, 
and a little cap, with a cherry-coloured bow, set 
on the top of her head—a coquettish head-dress, but 
the eyes spoke of sadness rather than of coquetry. 

Such were the things that Martha had dusted and 
let the air upon, four times a-year, ever since she 
was a blooming lass of twenty; and she was now, 
in this last decade of Mr. Gilfil’s life, unquestion¬ 
ably on the wrong side of fifty. Such was the 
locked-up chamber in Mr. Gilfil’s house: a sort of 
visible symbol of the secret chamber in his heart, 
where he had long turned the key on early hopes and 
early sorrows, shutting up for ever all the passion 
and the poetry of his life. 

There were not many people in the parish, besides 
Martha, who had any very distinct remembrance of 
Mr. GilfiTs wife, or indeed who knew anything of 
her, beyond the fact that there was a marble tablet, 
with a Latin inscription in memory of her, over 
the vicarage pew. The parishioners who were old 
enough to remember her arrival were not generally 
gifted with descriptive powers, and the utmost you 
could gather from them was, that Mrs. Gilfil looked 
like a “furriner, wi’ such eyes, you can’t think, an’ 
a voice as went through you when she sung at 
church.” The one exception was Mrs. Patten, whose 
strong memory and taste for personal narrative made 
her a great source of oral tradition in Shepperton. 
Mr. Hackit, who had not come into the parish until 
ten years after Mrs. 'GilfiTs death, would often put 
old questions to Mrs. Patten for the sake of getting 
the old answers, which, pleased him in the same way 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


19 


as passages from a favourite book, or the scenes 
of a familiar play, please more accomplished people. 

“Ah, you remember well the Sunday as Mrs. Gilfil 
first come to church, eh, Mrs. Patten?” 

“To be sure I do. It was a fine bright Sunday as 
ever was seen, just at the beginnin’ o’ hay harvest. 
Mr. Tarbett preached that day, and Mr. Gilfil sat i’ 
the pew wi’ his wife. I think I see him now, a-leadin’ 
her up th’ aisle, an’ her head not reachhT much 
above his elber: a little pale woman, wi’ eyes as 
black as sloes, an' yet lookin’ blank-like, as if she 
see’d nothing wi’ em.” 

“I warrant she had her weddin’ clothes on?” said 
Mr. Hackit. 

“Nothin’ partickler smart—on’y a white hat tied 
down under her chin, an’ a white Indy muslin gown. 
But you don’t know what Mr. Gilfil was in those 
times. He was fine an’ altered 26 afore you come into 
the parish. He’d a fresh colour then, an’ a bright 
look wi’ his eyes, as did your heart good to see. 
He looked rare an’ happy that Sunday, but somehow, 
I’d a feelin’ as it wouldn’t last long. I’ve no opin¬ 
ion o’ furriners, Mr. Hackit, for I’ve travelled i’ their 
country wi’ my lady in my time, an’ seen anuff o’ 
their victuals an’ their nasty ways.” 

“Mrs. Gilfil come from It’ly, didn’t she?” 

“I reckon she did, but I niver could rightly hear 
about that. Mr. Gilfil was niver to be spoke to about 
her, and nobody else hereabout knowed anythin'. 
Howiver, she must ha’ come over pretty young, for 
she spoke English as well as you an’ me. It’s them 
Italians as has such fine voices, an’ Mrs. Gilfil sung, 
you never heard the like. He brought her here to 
have tea wi’ me one afternoon, and says he, in his 
jovial way, ‘Now, Mrs. Patten, I want Mrs. Gilfil 


“Very much altered (Eng. dial). 



20 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


to see the neatest house, and drink the best cup o' 
tea, in all Shepperton; you must show her your dairy 
and your cheese-room, and then she shall sing you 
a song.’ An’ so she did; an’ her voice seemed some¬ 
times to fill the room; an' then it went low an' soft, 
as if it was whisperin' close to your heart like.” 

“You never heard her again, I reckon?” 

“No; she was sickly then, an’ she died in a few 
months after. She wasn't in the parish much more 
nor half a year altogether. She didn't seem lively 
that afternoon, an’ I could see she didn't care about 
the dairy, nor the cheeses, on’y she pretended, to 
please him. As for him, I niver see'd a man so 
wrapt up in a woman. He looked at her as if he was 
worshippin' her, an’ as if he wanted to lift her off 
the ground ivery minute, to save her the trouble o’ 
walkin’. Poor man, poor man! It had like to ha' 
killed him when she died, though he niver gev way, 
but went on ridin’ about and preachin’. But he was 
wore to a shadder, an' his eyes used to look as dead 
—you wouldn't ha’ knowed ’em.” 

“She brought him no fortin’?” 

“Not she. All Mr. Gilfil's property come by his 
mother’s side. There was blood an' money too, there. 
It's a thousand pities as he married a' that way—a 
fine man like him, as might ha' had the pick o' the 
county, an' had his grandchildren about him now. 
An' him so fond o' children, too.” 

In this manner Mrs. Patten usually wound up her 
reminiscences of the Vicar's wife, of whom, you per¬ 
ceive, she knew but little. It was clear that the 
communicative old lady had nothing to tell of Mrs. 
Gilfil’s history previous to her arrival in Shepperton, 
and that she was unacquainted with Mr. Gilfil’s love-¬ 
story. 

But I, dear reader, am quite as communicative as 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


21 


Mrs. Patten, and much better informed; so that if 
you care to know more about the Vicar’s courtship 
and marriage, you need only carry your imagination 
back to the latter end of the last century, and your 
attention forward into the next chapter. 


CHAPTER II 


It is the evening of the 21st of June, 1788. The 
day has been bright and sultry, and the sun will still 
be more than an hour above the horizon, but his 
rays, broken by the leafy fretwork of the elms that 
border the park, no longer prevent two ladies from 
carrying out their cushions and embroidery, and seat¬ 
ing themselves to work on the lawn in front of 
Cheverel Manor. The soft turf givesi way even un¬ 
der the fairy tread of the younger lady, whose small 
stature and slim figure rest on the tiniest of full- 
grown feet. She trips along before the elder, car¬ 
rying the cushions, which she places in the favour¬ 
ite spot, just on the slope by a clump of laurels, 
where they can see the sunbeams sparkling among 
the water-lilies, and can be themselves seen from the 
dining-room windows. 'She has deposited the cush¬ 
ions, and now turns round, so that you may have a 
full view of her as she stands waiting the slower 
advance of the elder lady. You are at once arrested 
by her large dark eyes, which, in their inexpressive 
unconscious beauty, resemble the eyes of a fawn; 
and it is only by an effort of attention that you no¬ 
tice the absence of bloom on her young cheek, and 
the southern yellowish tint of her small neck and 
face, rising above the little black lace kerchief 
which prevents the too immediate comparison of her 
skin with her white muslin gown. Her large eyes 
seem all the more striking because the dark hair is 
gathered away from her face, under a little cap set 
at the top of her head, with a cherry-coloured bow 
on one side. 

The elder lady, who is advancing towards the 
cushions, is cast in a very different mould of woman- 
122 ] 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


23 


hood. She is tall, and looks the taller because her 
powdered hair is turned backward over a toupee, 1 
and surmounted by lace and ribbons. She is nearly 
fifty, but her complexion is still fresh and beautiful, 
with the beauty of an auburn blond; her proud pout¬ 
ing lips, and her head thrown a I little backward as 
she walks, give an expression of hauteur which is 
not contradicted by the cold grey eye. The tucked- 
in kerchief, rising full over the low tight boddice 
of her blue dress, sets off the majestic form of her 
bust, and she treads the lawn as if she were one of 
Sir JiO>shua Reynolds’s 2 stately ladies, who had sud¬ 
denly stepped from her frame to 1 enjoy the evening 
cool. 

“Put the cushions lower, Caterina, that we may 
not have so much sun upon us,” she called out, in 
a tone of authority, when still at some distance. 

Caterina obeyed, and they sat down, making two 
bright patches of red and white and blue on the 
green background of the laurels and the lawn, 
which would look none the less pretty in a picture 
because one of the women’s hearts was rather cold 
and the other rather sad. 

And a charming picture Cheverel Manor would 
have made that evening, if some English Watteau* 
had been there to paint it: the castellated house of 
grey-tinted stone, with the flickering sunbeams send¬ 
ing dashes of golden light across the many-shaped 

1 A periwig in which the front hair was combed up, over 
a pad, into a topnot. 

2 A famous English painter who lived from 1723-1792; 
particularly distinguished for portraits. 

Mean Antoine Watteou, 1684-1721, a French painter suc¬ 
cessful with subjects representing shepherds, rustic dances, 
and country scenes. 



24 


Mr. Gilfii/s Love Story 


panes in the mullioned 4 windows, and a great beech 
leaning athwart one of the flanking towers, and 
breaking, with its dark flattened boughs, the too 
formal symmetry of the front; the broad gravel- 
walk winding on the right, by a row of tall pines, 
alongside the pool—on the left branching out among 
swelling grassy mounds, surmounted by clumps of 
trees, where the red trunk of the Scotch fir glows in 
the descending sunlight against the bright green of 
limes and acacias; the great pool, where a pair of 
swans are swimming lazily with one leg tucked un¬ 
der a wing, and where the open water-lilies lie calm¬ 
ly accepting the kisses of the fluttering light- 
sparkles; the lawn, with its smooth emerald green¬ 
ness, sloping down to the rougher and browner herb¬ 
age of the park, from which it is invisibly fenced 
by a little stream that winds away from the pool, 
and disappears under a wooden bridge in the distant 
pleasure-ground; and on this lawn our two ladies, 
whose part in the landscape the painter, standing 
at a favourable point of view in the park, would 
represent with a few little dabs of red and white 
and blue. 

Seen from the great Gothic windows of the dining¬ 
room, they had much more definiteness of outline, 
and were distinctly visible to the three gentlemen 
sipping their claret there, as two fair women, in 
whom all three had a personal interest. These gen¬ 
tlemen were a group worth considering attentively; 
but any one entering that dining-room for the first 
time, would perhaps have had his attention even 
more strongly arrested by the room itself, which was 
so bare of furniture that it impressed one with its 
architectural beauty like a cathedral. A piece of 

4 A mullion is a division piece between the lights of a 

window or the panels in wainscoting. 


i 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


25 


matting stretched from door to door, a bit of worn 
carpet under the dining-table, and a sideboard in a 
deep recess, did not detain the eye for a moment 
from the lofty groined 5 ceiling, with its richly- 
carved pendants, all of creamy white, relieved here 
and there by touches of gold. On one side, this lofty 
ceiling was supported by pillars and arches, beyond 
which a lower ceiling, a miniature copy of the high¬ 
er one, covered the square projection which, with 
its three large pointed windows, formed the central 
feature of the building. The room looked less like 
a place to dine in than a piece of space enclosed sim¬ 
ply for the sake of beautiful outline; and the small 
dining-table, with the party round it, seemed an 
odd and insignificant accident, rather than anything 
connected with the original purpose of the apart¬ 
ment. 

But, examined closely, that group was far from 
insignificant; for the eldest, who was reading in 
the newspaper the last portentous proceedings of 
the French parliaments, and turning with, occasional 
comments to his young companions, was as fine a 
specimen of the old English gentleman as could well 
have been found in those venerable days of cocked- 
hats and pigtails. His dark eyes sparkled under 
projecting brows, made more prominent by bushy 
grizzled eyebrows; but any apprehension of severity 
excited by these penetrating eyes, and by a somewhat 
aquiline nose, was allayed by the good-natured lines 
about the mouth, which retained all its teeth and 
its vigour of expression in spite of sixty winters. 
The forehead sloped a little from the projecting 

6 The Gothic ceiling of the dining-room was characterized 
by pointed arches or vaults. A groin is the line of inter- 
secton of two arches- Pendants are ornaments which hang 
from the ceiling- 



26 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


brows, and its peaked outline was made conspicuous 
by the arrangement of the profusely-powdered hair, 
drawn backward and gathered into a pigtail. He 
sat in a small hard chair, which did not admit the 
slightest approach to a lounge, and which showed 
to advantage the flatness of his back and the breadth 
of his chest. In fact, ;Sir Christopher Cheverel was 
a splendid old gentleman, as any one may see who 
enters the saloon 6 at Cheverel Manor, where his full- 
length portrait, taken when he was fifty, hangs side 
by side with that of his wife, the stately lady seated 
on the lawn. 

Looking at Sir Christopher, you would at once 
have been inclined to hope that he had a full-grown 
son and heir; but perhaps you would have wished 
that it might not prove to be the young man on his 
right hand, in whom a certain resemblance to the 
Baronet, 7 in the contour of the nose and brow, 
seemed to indicate a family relationship. If this 
young man had been less elegant in his person, he 
would have been remarked for the elegance of his 
dress. But the perfections of his slim well-propor¬ 
tioned figure were so striking that no one but a 
tailor could notice the perfections of his velvet coat; 
and his small white hands, with their blue veins 
and taper fingers, quite eclipsed the beauty of his 
lace ruffles. The face, however—it was difficult to 
say why—was certainly not pleasing. Nothing could 
be more delicate than the blond complexion—its 
bloom set off by the powdered hair—than the veined 
overhanging eyelids, which gave an indolent expres- 

e A drawing-room. 

7 An inheritable British title, usually descending to the 
male heir. The order was created by James I in 1611, 
Baronets are commoners, and rank next after the younger 
sons of barons. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


27 


sion to the hazel eyes; nothing more finely-cut than 
the transparent nostril and the short upperlip. Per¬ 
haps the chin and lower jaw were too small for an 
irreproachable profile, but the defect was on the 
side of that delicacy and finesse 8 9 which was the dis¬ 
tinctive characteristic of the whole person, and 
which was carried out in the clear brown arch of 
the eyebrows, and the marble smoothness of the slop¬ 
ing forehead. Impossible? to say that this face was 
not eminently handsome; yet, for the majority both 
of men and women, it was destitute of charm. Wom¬ 
en disliked eyes that seemed to be indolently ac¬ 
cepting [admiration instead of rendering it; and 
men, especially if they had a tendency to clumsiness 
in the nose and ankles, were inclined to think this 
Antinous" in a pigtail a “confounded puppy.” I 
fancy that was frequently the inward interjection 
of the Rev. Maynard Gilfil, who was seated on the 
opposite side of the dining-table, though Mr. Gil- 
fil’s legs and profile were not at all of a kind to make 
him peculiarly alive to the impertinence and frivolity 
of personal advantages. His healthy open face and 
robust limbs were after an excellent pattern for ev¬ 
eryday wear, and in the opinion of Mr. Bates, the 
north-country gardener, would have become regi¬ 
mentals “a fain saight” better than the “peaky” fea¬ 
tures and slight form of Captain 10 Wybrow, notwith¬ 
standing that this young gentleman, as Sir Chris¬ 
topher’s nephew and destined heir, had the strong¬ 
est hereditary claim on the gardener’s respect, and 

8 iSkillfulness, artfulness. 

9 A page, attendant, and favorite of the Roman Emperor 
Hadrian, 117-138 A. D. He was an effeminate young man 
who is said to have drowned himself in the Nile, perhaps 
from melancholy. 

1# Mr. Gilfil looked much more like a soldier than the deli¬ 
cate Captain Wybrow. 



28 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


was undeniably “clean-limbed/’ But alas! human 
longings are perversely obstinate; and to the man 
whose mouth is watering for a peach, it is of no 
use to offer the largest vegetable marrow. 11 Mr. Gilfil 
was not sensitive to Mr. Bates’s opinion, whereas he 
was sensitive to the opinion of another person, who 
by no means shared Mr. Bates’s preference. 

Who the other person was it would not have re¬ 
quired a very keen observer to guess, from a cer¬ 
tain eagerness in Mr. Gilfil’s glance as that little 
figure in white tripped along the lawn with the 
cushions. Captain Wybrow, too, was looking in the 
same direction, but his handsome face remained 
handsome—and nothing more. 

“Ah,” said Sir Christopher, looking up from his 
paper, “there’s my lady. Ring for coffee, Anthony; 
we’ll go and join her, and the little monkey Tina 
shall give us a song.” 

The coffee presently appeared, brought not as 
usual by the footman, in scarlet and drab, but by 
the old butler, in threadbare but well-brushed black, 
who, as he was placing it on the table, said— 

“If you please, Sir Christopher, there’s the widow 
Hartopp a-crying i’ the still-room, 12 and begs leave to 
see your honour.” 

“I have given Markham full orders about the wid¬ 
ow Hartopp,” said Sir Christopher, in a sharp de¬ 
cided tone. “I have nothing to say to her.” 

“Your honour,” pleaded the butler, rubbing his 
hands, and putting on an additional coating of hu¬ 
mility, “the poor woman’s dreadful overcome, and 
says she can’t sleep a wink this blessed night with^ 
out seeing your honour, and she begs you to pardon 


“A kind of gourd used as a table vegetable. 
12 The distillery. 



Mr. Gylfil’s Love Story 


29 


the great freedom she’s took to come at this time. 
She cries fit to break her heart.” 

“Ay, ay; water pays no tax. Well, show her into 
the library.” 

Coffee despatched, the two young men walked out 
through the open window, and joined the ladies on 
the lawn, while Sir Christopher made his way to 
the library, solemnly followed by Rupert, his pet 
bloodhound, who, in his habitual place at the Bar¬ 
onet’s right hand, behaved with great urbanity dur¬ 
ing dinner; but when the cloth was drawn, invar¬ 
iably disappeared under the table, apparently re¬ 
garding the claret-jug as a mere human weakness, 
which he winked at, but refused to sanction. 

The library lay but three steps from the dining¬ 
room, on the other side of a cloistered and matted 
passage. The oriel window was overshadowed by 
the great beech, and this, with the flat heavily- 
carved ceiling and the dark hue of the old books 
that lined the walls, made the room look sombre, es¬ 
pecially on entering it from the dining-room, with 
its aerial curves and cream-coloured fretwork 
touched with gold. As Sir Christopher opened the 
door, a jet of brighter light fell on a woman in a 
widow’s dress, who stood in the middle of the room, 
and made the deepest of curtsies as he entered. She 
was a buxom woman approaching forty, her eyes red 
with the tears which had evidently been absorbed by 
the handkerchief gathered into a damp ball in her 
right hand. 

“Now, Mrs. Hartopp.” Said Sir Christopher, taking 
out his gold snuff-box and tapping the lid, “what 
have you to say to me? Markham has delivered you 
a notice to quit, I suppose?” 

“0 yis, your honour, an’ that’s the reason why I’ve 
come. I hope your honour’ll think better on it, an’ 


30 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


not turn me an’ my poor children out o’ the farm, 
where my husband al’ys paid his rent as reglar as 
the day come.” 

“Nonsense! I should like to know what good it 
will do you and your children to stay on a farm and 
lose every farthing your husband has left you, in¬ 
stead of selling your stock and going into some little 
place where you can keep your money together. It 
is very well known to every tenant of mine that I 
never allow widows to stay on their husband’s 
farms.” 

“0, Sir Christifer, if you would consider—when 
I’ve sold the hay, an’ corn, an’ all the live things, an’ 
paid the debts, an’ put the money out to use, I shall 
have hardly anuff to keep wer 13 souls an’ bodies to¬ 
gether. An’ how can I rear my boys and put ’em 
’prentice? They must goo for dey-labourers, an’ 
their father a man wi’ as good belongings as any on 
your honour’s estate, an’ niver threshed his wheat 
afore it was well i’ the rick, nor sold the straw' off 
his farm, nor nothin’. Ask all the farmers round if 
there was a stiddier, soberer man than my husband 
as attended Ripstone market. An’ he says, ‘Bessie,’ 
says he—them was his last words—‘you’ll mek a 
shift to manage the farm, if Sir Christopher ’ull let 
you stay on.’ ” 

“Pooh, pooh!” said Sir Christopher, Mrs. Hartopp’s 
sobs having interrupted her pleadings, “now listen 
to me, and try to understand a little common-sense. 
You are about as able to manage the farm as your 
best milch cow. You’ll be obliged to have some 
managing man, who will either cheat you out of 
your money or wheedle you into marrying him.” 

“0, your honour, I was never that sort o’ woman, 
an’ nobody has known it on me,” 


18 Our (Eng. dialect,) 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


31 


“Very likely not, because you were never a widow 
before. A woman’s always silly enough, but she’s 
never quite as great a fool as she can be until she 
puts on a widow’s cap. Now, just ask yourself how 
much the better you will be for staying on your farm 
at the end of four years, when you’ve got through 
your money, and let your farm run down, and are 
in arrears for half your rent; or, perhaps, have got 
some great hulky fellow for a husband, who swears 
at you and kicks your children.” 

“Indeed, Sir Christifer, I know a deal o’ farmin’, 
an’ was brought up i’ the thick on it, as you may say. 
An’ there was my husband’s great aunt managed a 
farm for twenty year, an’ left legacies to all her 
nephys an’ nieces, an’ even to my husband, as was 
then a babe unborn.” 

“Psha! a woman six feet high, with a squint and 
sharp elbows, I daresay—a man in petticoats. Not 
a rosy-cheeked widow like you, Mrs. Hartopp.” 

“Indeed, your honour, I never heard on her 
squintin’, an’ they’ said as she might ha’ been mar¬ 
ried o’er and o’er again, to people as had no call to 
hanker after her money.” 

“Ay, ay, that’s what you all think. Every man that 
looks at you wants to marry you, and would like you 
the better the more children you have and the less 
money. But it is useless to talk and cry. I have 
good reasons for my plans, and never alter them. 
What you have to do is to make the best of your 
stock, and to look tout for some little place to go to, 
when you leave The Hollows. Now, go back to Mrs. 
Bellamy’s room, and ask her to give you a dish of 
tea.” 

Mrs. Hartopp, understanding from Sir Christo¬ 
pher’s tone that he was not to be shaken, curtsied 
low and left the library, while' the Baronet, seating 


32 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


himself at his desk in the oriel window, wrote the 
following letter:— 

“Mr. Markham,—Take no steps about letting 
Crowsfoot Cottage, as I intend to put in the widow 
Hartopp when she leaves her farm; and if you will 
be here at eleven on Saturday morning, I will ride 
round with you, and settle about making some re¬ 
pairs, and see about adding a bit of land to the 
take, 14 as she will want to keep a cow and some pigs. 
—Yours faithfully. 

“Christopher Cheverel.” 

After ringing the bell and ordering this letter to 
be sent, Sir Christopher walked out to join the party 
on the lawn. But finding the cushions deserted, he 
walked on to the eastern front of the building, 
where, by the side of the grand entrance, was the 
large bow-window of the saloon, opening on to the 
gravel-sweep, and looking towards a long vista of 
undulating turf, bordered by tall trees, which, seem¬ 
ing to unite itself with the green of the meadows 
and a grassy road through a plantation, 18 only ter¬ 
minated with the Gothic arch of a gateway in the 
far distance. The bow-window was open, and Sir 
Christopher, stepping in, found the group he sought, 
examining the progress of the unfinished ceiling. It 
was in the same style of florid pointed Gothic as the 
dining-room, but more elaborate in its tracery, 
which was like petrified lacework picked out with 
delicate and varied colouring. About a fourth of it 
still remained uncoloured, and under this part were 
scaffolding, ladders, and tools; otherwise the spac- 

14 Land held by a lease (Eng. dial.) Sir Christopher would 
not allow Mrs. Hartopp to attempt to manage a farm, but 
he was going to let her rent a cottage with enough ground 
to keep a cow and pigs. 

ls Any plan or plot of ground that is planted. See page 85. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


33 


ious saloon was empty of furniture, and seemed to 
be a grand Gothic canopy for the group of five hu¬ 
man figures standing in the centre. 

“Francesco has been getting on a little better the 
last day or two/' said Sir Christopher, as he joined 
the party: “he’s a sad lazy dog, and 1 fancy he has 
a knack of sleeping as he stands, with his brushes 
in his hands. But I must spur him on, or we may 
not have the scaffolding cleared away before the 
bride comes, if you show dexterous generalship in 
your wooing, eh, Anthony? and take your Magde¬ 
burg 18 quickly.” 

“Ah, sir, a siege is known to be one of the most 
tedious operations in war,” said Captain Wybrow, 
with an easy smile. 

“Not when there’s a traitor within the walls in 
the shape of a soft heart. And that there will be, 
if Beatrice has her mother’s tenderness as well as 
her mother’s beauty.” 

“What do you think, Sir Christopher,” said Lady 
Cheverel, who seemed to wince a little under her 
husband’s reminiscences, “of hanging Guercino’s 
‘Sibyl’ 17 over that door when we put up the pictures? 
It is rather lost in my sitting-room.” 

“Very good, my love,” answered Sir Christopher, 
in a tone of punctiliously polite affection; “if you 
like to part with the ornament from your own room, 
it will show admirably here. 0)ur portraits, by Sir 

1U A city on the river Elbe, capital of Saxony, Germany. 
It was protected by a powerful fortress, but it was many 
times captured and recaptured during the wars of the 16th, 
17th, and 19th centuries. 

1T The real name of this Italian painter was Giovanni 
Francesco Barbieri, 1590-1666; called Guercino because he 
.squinted. He painted two “Sibyls” ; the original of one is 
now in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, the other in the 
Capital Gallery, Rome. A sibyl was a prophetess. 



84 


Mr. Gilfil's Love Story 


Joshua, will hang opposite the window, and the 
‘Transfiguration’ 1 * at that end. You see, Anthony, 
I am leaving no good places on the walls for you and 
your wife. We shall turn you with your faces to 
the wall in the gallery, and you may take your re¬ 
venge on us by-and-by.” 

While this conversation was going on^ Mr. Gilfil 
turned to Caterina and said,— 

“I like the view from this window better than any 
other in the house.” 

She made no answer, and he saw that her eyes 
were filling with tears; so he added, “Suppose we 
walk out a little; Sir Christopher and my lady seem 
to be occupied.” 

Caterina complied silently, and they turned down 
one of the gravel walks that led, after many wind¬ 
ings, under tall trees and among grassy openings, to 
a large enclosed flower-garden. Their walk was 
perfectly silent, for Maynard Gilfil knew that Cat- 
erina’s thoughts were not with him, and she had 
been long used to make him endure the weight of 
those moods which she carefully hid from others. 

They reached the flower-garden, and turned me¬ 
chanically in at the gate that -opened, through a 
high thick hedge, on an expanse of brilliant colour, 
which, after the green shades they had passed 
through, startled the eye like flames. The effect 
was assisted by an undulation of the ground, which 
gradually descended from the entrance-gate, and 
then rose again towards the opposite end, crowned 

]8 The most famous “Transfiguration” was painted by 
Raphael, 1483-1520. It was unfinished at his death, and 
was completed by Giulio Romano, one of his pupils. The 
original is in the Museum of the Vatican, Rome. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


35 


by an orangery. 19 The flowers were glowing with 
their evening splendours; verbenas and heliotropes 
were sending up their finest incense. It seemed a 
gala" 0 where all was happiness and brilliancy, and 
misery could find no sympathy. This was the effect 
it had on Caterina. As she wound among the beds 
of gold and blue and pink, where the flowers seemed 
to be looking at her with wondering elf-like eyes, 
knowing nothing of sorrow, the feeling of isolation 
in her wretchedness overcame her, and the tears, 
which had been before trickling slowly down her 
pale cheeks, now gushed forth accompanied with 
sobs. And yet there was a loving human being close 
beside her, whose heart was aching for hers, who 
was possessed by the feeling that she was miserable, 
and that he was helpless to soothe her. But she was 
too much irritated by the idea that his wishes were 
different from hers, that he rather regretted the 
folly of her hopes than the probability of their dis¬ 
appointment, to take any comfort in his sympathy. 
Caterina, like the rest of us, turned away from sym¬ 
pathy which she suspected to be mingled with crit¬ 
icism, as the child turns away from the sweetmeat in 
which it suspects imperceptible medicine. 

“Dear Caterina, I think I hear voices,” said Mr. 
Gilfil; “they may be coming this way.” 

She checked herself like one accustomed to con¬ 
ceal her emotions, and ran rapidly to the other end 
of the garden, where she seemed occupied in select¬ 
ing a rose. Presently Lady Cheverel entered, lean¬ 
ing on the arm of Captain Wybrow, and followed by 
Sir Christopher. The party stopped to admire the 
tiers of geraniums near the gate; and in the mean- 

10 A building where orange trees are grown when the cli¬ 
mate is too severe for it to be done out-of-doors. 

20 A festive show; a day of festivity. 



36 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


time Caterina tripped back with a moss rose-bud 
in her hand, and going- up to Sir Christopher, said— 
“There, Padroncello , 21 there is a nice rose for your 
button-hole.” 

“Ah, you black-eyed monkey,” he said, fondly 
stroking her cheek; “so you have been running off 
with, Maynard, either to torment or coax him an 
inch or two deeper into love. Come, come, I want 
you to sing us ‘Ho perduto m before we sit down to 
picquet. 2a Anthony goes to-morrow, you know; you 
must warble him into the right sentimental lover’s 
mood, that he may acquit himself well at Bath.” He 
put her little arm under his, and calling to Lady 
Cheverel, “Come, Henrietta!” led the way towards 
the house. 

The party entered the drawing-room, which, with 
its oriel window, corresponded to the library in the 
other wing, and had also a flat ceiling heavy with 
carving and blazonry; but the window being un¬ 
shaded, and the walls hung with full-length por- 

aT Padrone is an Italian word meaning “master, one who 
takes the place of father.” Cello is a suffix, which added 
to a word, means “affection and indulgence.” 

“Christopher Willibald Gluck, 1714-1787, was a famous 
German composer of operas. One of the best of his operas 
was Orfeo Euridice (Orpheus and Eurydice), 1762. This 
tells the story of the Greek mythical poet and musician, 
who by the sweetness of his music won the right to rescue 
his wife from Hades on condition that he was not to look 
back until they had returned to earth. His anxiety to know 
whether or not she w T as following him caused him to look 
just as they were about to pass the fatal bounds. Eurydice 
was snatched back into Hades. Caterina sings two songs 
from the third act of the opera: Ho perduto il bel sembi- 
ante, “I have lost the beautiful vision"; and Che faro ' 
sense Eurydice , “What shall I do without Eurydice?” 

23 A two-handed game of cards played with a pack from 
which the cards below the seven are excluded. 



Mr. Gilfil/s Love Story 


37 


traits of knights and dames in scarlet, white, and 
gold, it had not the sombre effect of the library. 
Here hung the portrait of Sir Anthony Cheverel, 
who in the reign of Charles II, 24 was the renovator 
of the family splendour, which had suffered some de¬ 
clension from the early brilliancy of that Chevreuil 25 
who came over with the Conqueror. A very impos¬ 
ing personage was this Sir Anthony, standing with 
one arm akimbo, and one fine leg and foot ad¬ 
vanced, evidently with a view to the gratification of 
his contemporaries and posterity. You might have 
taken off the splendid peruke, and his scarlet cloak, 
which was thrown backward from his shoulders, 
without annihilating the dignity of his appearance. 
And he had known how to choose a wife, too, for 
his lady, hanging opposite to him, with her sunny* 
brown hair drawn away in bands from her mild 
grave face, and falling in two large rich curls on 
her snowy gently-sloping neck, which shamed the 
harsher hue and outline of her white satin robe, was 
a fit mother of “large-acred” 2 * 5 heirs. 

In this room tea was served; and here, every eve¬ 
ning, as regularly as the great clock in the court¬ 
yard with deliberate bass tones struck nine, Sir 
Christopher and Lady Cheverel sat down to picquet 
until half-past ten, when Mr. Gilfil read prayers 
to the assembled household in the chapel. 

But now it was not near nine, and Caterina must 
sit down to the harpsichord and sing Sir Christo- 

M King of England, 1660-1685. 

35 A French word meaning “roebuck,” a species of deer 
common in Europe. William of Normandy conquered Eng¬ 
land in 1066. 

16 0wners of many acres. Eliot may be remembering a 
line from Pope: “Heathcote himself and such large-acred 
men,” Imitations of Horace, Epist. II, 1. 240. 



38 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


pher’s favourite airs from Gluck’s Orfeo, an opera 
which, for the happiness of that generation, was 
then to be heard on the London stage. ±t happened 
this evening that the sentiment of these airs, “Che 
faro senza Eurydice?” and “Ho perduto il bel sem- 
biante,” in both of which Orpheus pours out his 
yearning after his lost love, came very close to Cat- 
erina’s own feeling. But her emotion, instead of be¬ 
ing a hindrance to her singing, gave her additional 
power. Her singing was what she could do best; 
it was her one point of superiority, in which it was 
probable she could excel the highborn beauty whom 
Anthony was to woo; and her love, her jealousy, her 
pride, her rebellion against her destiny, made one 
stream of passion which welled forth in the deep 
rich tones of her voice. She had a rare contralto, 
which Lady Cheverel, who had high musical taste, 
had been careful to preserve her from straining. 

“Excellent, Caterina,” said Lady Cheverel, as there 
was a pause after the wonderful linked sweetness 
of “Che faro .” “I never heard you sing that so well. 
Once more!” 

It was repeated; and then came “Ho perduto,” 
which Sir Christopher encored, in spite of the clock, 
just striking nine. When the last note was dying 
out, he said— 

“There’s a clever black-eyed monkey. Now bring 
out the table for picquet.” 

Caterina drew out the table, and placed the cards; 
then, with her rapid fairy suddenness of motion, 
threw herself on her knees, and clasped (Sir Chris¬ 
topher’s knee. He bent down, stroked her cheek, 
and smiled. 

“Caterina, that is foolish,” said Lady Cheverel. 
“I wish you would leave off those stage-players’ an¬ 
tics.” 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


39 


She jumped up, arranged the music on the harpsi¬ 
chord, and then, seeing the Baronet and his lady 
seated at picquet, quietly glided out of the room. 

Captain Wybrow had been leaning near the harp¬ 
sichord during the singing, and the chaplain had 
thrown himself on a sofa at the end of the room. 
They both now took up a book. Mr. Gilfil chose the 
last number of the Gentleman's Magazine ; 27 Captain 
Wybrow? stretched on an ottoman near the door, 
opened Faublas; and there was perfect silence in 
the room which, ten minutes before, was vibrating 
to the passionate tones of Caterina. 

She had made her way along the cloistered pas¬ 
sages, now lighted here and there by a small oil- 
lamp, to the grand staircase, which led directly to 
a gallery running along the whole eastern side of 
the building, where it was her habit to walk when 
she wished to be alone. The bright moonlight was 
streaming through the windows, throwing into 
strange light and shadow the heterogeneous objects 
that lined the long walls: Greek statues and busts of 
Roman emperors; low cabinets filled with curiosities, 
natural and antiquarian; tropical birds, and huge 
horns of beasts; Hindoo gods and strange shells; 
swords and daggers, and bits of chain-armour; 
Roman lamps and tiny models of Greek temples; 

^The Gentleman’s Magazine was started in 1731. It 
was a sober and sedate journal, and its numbers are now 
valuable for tbe knowledge they give of life and literature 
in eighteenth century England. Armours Du Chevalier de 
Faublas (Loves of the Chevalier de Faublas) is a cele¬ 
brated novel of amorous adventures by Louvet de Couvray, 
a French author. It appeared from 1787 to 1790, and was, 
therefore, at the time of Mr. Gilfil, the latest French novel. 
Eliot is showing the difference in the characters of Mr. 
Gilfil and Captain Wybrow by telling us what each pre¬ 
ferred to read. 



40 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


and, above all these, queer old family portraits— 
of little boys and girls, once the hope of the Chev- 
erels, with close-shaven heads imprisoned in stiff 
ruffs—of faded? pink-faced ladies, with rudimentary 
features and highly developed head-dresses—of gal¬ 
lant gentlemen, w,ith. high hips, high shoulders, and 
red pointed beards. 

Here, on rainy days, Sir Christopher and his lady 
took their promenade, and here billiards were 
played; but, in the evening, it was forsaken by all 
except Caterina—and, sometimes, one other person. 

She paced up and down in the moonlight, her pale 
face and thin white-robed form making her look like 
the ghost of some former Lady Cheverel come to re¬ 
visit the glimpses of the moon.® 

By-and-by she paused opposite the broad window 
above the portico, and looked out on the long vista 
of turf and trees now stretching chill and saddened 
in the moonlight. 

Suddenly a breath of warmth and roses seemed to 
float towards her, and an arm stole gently round her 
waist, while a soft hand took up her tiny fingers. 
Caterina felt an electric thrill, and was motionless 
for one long moment; then she pushed away the 
arm and hand, and, turning round, lifted up to the 
face that hung over her, eyes full of tenderness and 
reproach. The fawn-like unconsciousness was gone, 
and in that one look were the ground tones of poor 
little Caterina’s nature—intense love and fierce jeal¬ 
ousy. 

“Why do you push me away, Tina?” said Captain 
Wybrow in a half-whisper; “are you angry with me 
for what a hard fate puts upon me? Would you have 
me cross my uncle—who has done so much for us 

^Hamlet uses these words in speaking to the Ghost of 
his father. Hamlet, I, iv, 53. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


41 


both—in his dearest wish? You know I have duties 
—we both have duties—before which feeling must 
be sacrificed.” 

“Yes, yes,” said Caterina, stamping her foot, and 
turning away her head; “don’t tell me what I know 
already. ” 

There was a voice speaking in Caterina’s mind, to 
which she had never yet given vent. That voice said 
continually, “Why did he make me love him—why 
did he let me know he loved me, if he knew all the 
while that he couldn’t brave everything for my 
sake?” Then love answered, “He was led on by the 
feeling of the moment, as you have been, Caterina; 
and now you ought to help him to do what is right.” 
Then the voice rejoined, “It was a slight matter to 
him. He doesn’t much mind giving you up. He will 
soon love that beautiful woman, and forget a poor 
little pale thing like you.” 

Thus love, anger, and jealousy were struggling in 
that young soul. 

“Besides, Tina,” continued Captain Wybrow in still 
gentler tones, “I shall not succeed. Miss Assher 
very likely prefers some one else; and you know I 
have the best will in the world to fail. I shall come 
back a hapless bachelor—perhaps to find you al¬ 
ready married to the good-looking chaplain, who is 
over head and ears in love with you. Poor Sir Chris¬ 
topher has made up his mind that you’re to have 
Gilfil.” 

“Why will you speak so? You speak from your 
own want of feeling. Go away from me.” 

“Don’t let us part in anger, Tina. All this may 
pass away. It’s as likely as not that I may never 
marry any one at all. These palpitations may carry 
me off, and you may have the satisfaction of know¬ 
ing that I shall never be anybody’s bridegroom. Who 


42 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


knows what may happen? I may be my own master 
before I get into the bonds of holy matrimony, ana 
be able to choose my little singing-bird. Why should 
we distress ourselves before the time?” 

“It is easy to talk so when you are not feeling,” 
said Caterina, the tears flowing fast. “It is bad to 
bear now, whatever may come after. But you don’t 
care about my misery.” 

“Don’t I, Tina?” said Anthony in his tenderest 
tones, again stealing his arm round her waist, and 
drawing her towards him. Poor Tina was the slave 
of this voice and touch. Grief and resentment, ret¬ 
rospect and foreboding, vanished—all life before and 
after melted away in the bliss of that moment, as 
Anthony pressed his lips to hers. 

Captain Wybrow thought, “Poor little Tina! it 
would make her very happy to have me. But she 
is a mad little thing.” 

At that moment a loud bell startled Caterina from 
her trance of bliss. It was the summons to prayers 
in the chapel, and she hastened away, leaving Cap¬ 
tain Wybrow to follow slowly. 

It was a pretty sight, that family assembled to 
worship in the little chapel, where a couple of wax- 
candles threw a mild faint light on the figures kneel¬ 
ing there. In the desk was Mr. Gilfil, with his face 
a shade graver than usual. On his right hand, 
kneeling on their red velvet cushions, were the mas¬ 
ter and mistress of the household, in their elderly 
dignified beauty. On his left, the youthful grace of 
Anthony and Caterina, in all the striking contrast 
of their colouring—he, with his exquisite outline and 
rounded fairnoss, like an Olympian god; she, dark 
and tiny, like a gipsy changeling . 29 Then there were 


®An ugly child substituted by fairies for a pretty one. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


43 


the domestics kneeling on red-covered forms—the 
women headed by Mrs. Bellamy, the natty little old 
housekeeper, in snowy cap and apron, and Mrs. 
Sharp, my lady’s maid, of somewhat vinegar aspect 
and flaunting attire; the men by Mr. Bellamy the 
butler, and Mr. Warren, Sir Christopher’s venerable 
valet. 

A few collects from the Evening Service was what 
Mr. Gilfil habitually read , 30 ending with the simple 
petition, “Lighten our darkness.” 

And then they all rose, the servants turning to 
curtsy and bow as they went out. The family re¬ 
turned to the drawing-room, said good-night to each 
other, and dispersed—all to speedy slumber except 
two. Caterina only cried herself to sleep after the 
clock had struck twelve. Mr. Gilfil lay awake still 
longer, thinking that very likely Caterina was cry¬ 
ing. 

Captain Wybrow, having dismissed his valet at 
eleven, was soon in a soft slumber, his face looking 
like a fine cameo in high relief on the slightly in¬ 
dented pillow. 

30 A short prayer, usually of one sentence, containing a 
petition for grace or blessing. It precedes the Epistle and 
Gospel for the day, and is so called because it collects or 
sums up their teaching. 



CHAPTER III 


The last chapter has given the discerning reader 
sufficient insight into the state of things at Cheverel 
Manor in the summer of 1788. In that summer, we 
know, the great nation of France was agitated by 
conflicting thoughts and passions, which were but 
the beginning of sorrows. 1 And in our Caterina’s 
little breast, too, there were terrible struggles. The 
poor bird was beginning to flutter and vainly dash 
its soft breast against the hard iron bars of the 
inevitable, and we see too plainly the danger, if that 
anguish should go on heightening, instead of being 
allayed, that the palpitating heart may be fatally 
bruised. 

Meanwhile, if, as I hope, you feel some interest 
in Caterina and her friends at Cheverel Manor, you 
are perhaps asking, How came she to be there? 
How was it that this tiny, dark-eyed child of the 
south, whose face was immediately suggestive of 
olive-covered hills, and taper-lit shrines, came to 
have her home in that stately English, manor-house, 
by the side of the blonde matron, Lady Cheverel—- 
almost as if a humming-bird were found perched on 
one of the elm-trees in the park, by the side of her 
ladyship’s handsomest pouter-pigeon? Speaking 
good English, too, and joining in Protestant prayers. 
'Surely she must have been adopted and brought over 
to England at a very early age. She was. 

During Sir Christopher’s last visit to Italy with 
his lady, fifteen years before, they resided for some 
time at Milan, 2 where Sir Christopher, who was an 
enthusiast for Gothic architecture, and was then en- 

lr rhe reference is to the French Revolution, which began 
in 17S9, and led to many years of bloodshed. 

[44] 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


45 


tertaining the project of metamorphosing his plain 
brick family mansion into the model of a Gothic 
manor-house, was bent on studying the details of 
that marble miracle, the Cathedral. Here Lady Chev- 
erel, as at other Italian cities where she made any 
protracted stay, engaged a maestro 3 to give her les¬ 
sons in singing, for she had then not only fine 
musical taste, but a fine soprano voice. Those were 
days when very rich people used manuscript music, 
and many a man who resembled Jean Jacques in 
nothing else, resembled him in getting a livelihood 
“a copier la musique a tant la page.” 4 Lady Chev- 
erel having need of this service, Maestro Albani told 
her he would send her a poveraccio 5 of his acquaint¬ 
ance, whose manuscript was the neatest and most 
correct he knew of. Unhappily, the poveraccio was 
not always in his best wits, and was sometimes 
rather slow in consequence; but it would be a work 
of Christian charity worthy of the beautiful Signora 6 
to employ poor Sarti. 

The next morning, Mrs. Sharp, then a blooming 
abigaiT of three-and-thirty, entered her lady’s pri- 

3 An important city of northern Italy; well known as a 
center of the tine arts, and for its Gothic cathedral, begun in 
1386, one of the largest and most beautiful in Europe. 

3 Master. 

4 “By copying music at so much a page.” Jean Jacques 
Rousseau, 1712-1778, a French philosopher and writer; one 
of the most important influences on the life and literature 
of the 18th and 19th centuries. The quotation is from 
chapter VIII of Rousseau’s Confessions , his autobiography. 
He is telling of his life in Paris, 1750-52. ( Confessions , 

Ch. VIII, p. 337; Paris, no date. Librairie Gamier Freres). 

5 Poor fellow. 

a Lndy; Italian term of address, 



46 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


vate room and raid, “If you please, my lady, there’s 
the frowiest, 8 shabbiest man you ever saw outside, 
and he’s told Mr. Warren as the singing-master sent 
him to see your ladyship. But I think you’ll hardly 
like him to come in here. Belike he’s only a beggar.” 

“0 yes, show him in immediately.” 

Mrs. Sharp retired, muttering something about 
“fleas and worse.” She had the smallest possible ad¬ 
miration for fair Ausonia 9 and its natives, and even 
her profound deference for Sir Christopher and her 
lady could not prevent her from expressing her 
amazement at the infatuation of gentlefolks in choos¬ 
ing to sojourn among “Papises, 10 in countries where 
there was no getting to air a bit o’ linen, and where 
the people smelt o’ garlick fit to knock you down.” 

However, she presently reappeared, ushering in a 
small meagre man, sallow and dingy, with a restless 
wandering look in his dull eyes, and an excessive 
timidity about his deep reverences, which gave him 
the air of a man who had been long a solitary pris¬ 
oner. Yet through all this squalor and wretchedness 
there were some traces discernible of comparative 
youth and former good looks. Lady Cheverel, though 
not very tender-hearted, still less sentimental, was 
essentially kind, and liked to dispense benefits like 
a goddess, who looks down benignly on the halt, 
the maimed, and the blind that approach her shrine. 
She was smitten with some compassion at the sight 

7 A lady’s maid. This use of the name has been popular 
since The Scornful Lady, a play written about 1612 by 
Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher. Abigail was one 
of David’s wives (I. Samuel, 36). 

8 There is an English dialect word, frowiest, meaning 
stale, as milk on the point of turning sour; but Mrs. Sharp 
probably means to say frowsiest, —untidy, ill-smelling. 

Ancient poetic name of Italy. 

10 Papistg; members of the Roman Catholic Church, 



Mr. Gilfil's Love Story 


47 


of poor Sarti, who struck her as the mere battered 
wreck of a vessel that might have once floated gaily 
enough on its outward voyage, to the sound of pipes 
and tabors. She spoke gently as she pointed out to 
him the operatic selections she wished him to copy, 
and he seemed to sun himself in her auburn, radiant 
presence, so that when he made his exit with the 
music-books under his arm, his bow, though not less 
reverent, was less timid. 

It was ten years at least since Sarti had seen any¬ 
thing so bright and stately and beautiful as Lady 
Cheverel. For the time was far off in which he had 
trod the stage in satin and feathers, the primo 
tenore 11 of one short season. Alas! he had completely 
lost his'voice in the following winter, and had ever 
since been little better than a cracked fiddle, which 
is good for nothing but firewood. For, like many 
Italian singers, he was too ignorant to teach, and 
if it had not been for his one talent of penmanship, 
he and his young helpless wife might have starved. 
Then, just after their third child was born, fever 
came, swept away the sickly mother and the two 
eldest children, and attacked Sarti himself, who 
rose from his sick-bed with enfeebled brain and 
muscle, and a tiny baby on his hands, scarcely four 
months old. He lodged over a fruit-shop kept by a 
stout virago, 12 loud of tongue and irate in temper, 
but who had had children born to her, and so had 
taken care of the tiny yellow, black-eyed bambirb- 
etta , 13 and tended Sarti himself through his sickness. 
Here he continued to live, earning a meagre subsist- 

“First tenor. 

“A woman of unusual stature, strength, and courage. This 
is an archaic meaning; in a more modern sense, the term 
describes a bold, impudent, and turbulent woman. 

“Baby-child. 



48 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


ence for himself' and his little one by the work of 
copying music, put into his hands chiefly by Maestro 
Albani. He seemed to exist for nothing but the 
child: he tended it, he dandled it, he chatted to it, 
living with it alone in his one room above the fruit- 
shop, only asking his landlady to take care of the 
marmoset' 4 during his short absence in fetching and 
carrying home work. Customers frequenting that 
fruit-shop might often see the tiny Caterina seated 
on the floor with her legs in a heap of pease, which 
it was her delight to kick about; or perhaps de¬ 
posited, like a kitten, in a large basket out of harm’s 
way. 

Sometimes, however, Sarti left his little one with 
another kind of protectress. He was very regular 
in his devotions, which he paid thrice a-week in the 
great cathedral, carrying Caterina with him. Here, 
when the high morning sun was warming the myriad 
glittering pinnacles without, and struggling against 
the massive glo»om within, the shadow of a man 
with a child on his arm might be seen flitting across 
the more stationary shadows of pillar and mullion, 
and making its way towards a little tinsel Madonna 
hanging in a retired spot near the choir. Amid all 
the sublimities of the mighty cathedral, poor Sarti 
had fixed on this tinsel Madonna as the symbol of 
divine mercy and protection,—just as a child, in the 
presence of a great landscape, sees none of the 
glories of wood and sky, but sets its heart on a 
floating feather or insect that happens to be on a 
level with its eye. Here, then, Sarti worshipped and 
prayed, setting Caterina on the floor by his side; and 
now and then, when the cathedral lay near some 
place where he had to call, and did not like to take 

small monkey inhabiting Central and South America; 
a squirrel-monkey, not able to hang by its tail. 



Mr. Gilfii/s Love Story 


49 


her, he would leave her there in front of the tinsel 
Madonna, where she would sit, perfectly good, amus¬ 
ing herself with low crowing noises and see-sawings 
of her tiny body. And when 'Sarti came back, he 
always found that the Blessed Mother had taken 
good care of Caterina. 

That was briefly the history of Sarti, who fulfilled 
so well the orders Lady Cheverel gave him, that she 
sent him away again with a stock of new work. But 
this time, week after week passed, and he neither 
reappeared nor sent home the music intrusted to 
him. Lady Cheverel began to be anxious, and was 
thinking of sending Warren to inquire at the address 
Sarti had given her, when one day, as she was 
equipped for driving out, the valet brought in a 
small piece of paper, which he said had been left for 
her ladyship by a man who was carrying fruit. The 
paper contained only three tremulous lines, in 
Italian:— 

“Will the Eccelentissima, 15 for the love of God, 
have pity on a dying man, and come to him?” 

Lady Cheverel recognized the hand-writing as 
Sarti’s in spite of its tremulousness, and going down 
to her carriage, ordered the Milanese coachman to 
drive to Strada Quinquagesima, Numero 10. 16 The 
coach stopped in a dirty narrow street opposite La 
Pazzini’s fruit-shop, and that large specimen of 
womanhood immediately presented herself at the 
door, to the extreme disgust of Mrs. Sharp, who re¬ 
marked privately to Mr. Warren that La Pazzini 
was a “hijeous porpis.” 17 The fruit-woman, how¬ 
ever, was all smiles and deep curtsies to the Eccel- 

16 The most excellent lady. 

“Fiftieth Street, Number 10. 

17 “Hideous porpoise.” The common porpoise has a blunt 
head and a thick body. 



50 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


entissima, who, not very well understanding her Mil¬ 
anese dialect, abbreviated the conversation by asking 
to be shown at once to Signor Sarti. La Pazzini pre¬ 
ceded her up the dark narrow stairs, and opened a 
door through which she begged her ladyship to enter, 
Directly opposite the door lay Sarti, on a low mis¬ 
erable bed. His eyes were glazed, and no movement 
indicated that he wa$ conscious of their entrance. 

On the foot of the bed was seated a tiny child, ap¬ 
parently not three years old, her head covered by a 
linen cap, her feet clothed with leather boots, above 
which her little yellow legs showed thin and naked. 
A frock, made of what had once been a gay flowered 
silk, was her only other garment. Her large dark 
eyes shone from out her queer little face, like two 
precious stones in a grotesque image carved in old 
ivory. She held an empty medicine-bottle in her 
hand, and was amusing herself with putting the 
cork in and drawing it out again* to hear how it 
would pop. 

La Pazzini went up to the bed and said, “Ecco la 
nobilissima donna!” 18 but directly after screamed 
out, “Holy mother! he is dead.” 

It was so. The entreaty had not been sent in time 
for Sarti to carry out his project of asking the great 
English lady to take care of his Caterina, That was 
the thought which haunted his feeble brain as soon 
as he began to fear that his illness would end in 
death. She had wealth—she was kind—she would 
surely do something for the poor orphan. And so, 
at last, he sent that scrap of paper, which won the 
fulfillment of his prayer, though he did not live to 
utter it. Lady Cheverel gave La Pazzini money that 
the last decencies might be paid to the dead man, 
and carried away Caterina, moaning to consult Sir 

18 “Here is the most noble lady.” 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


51 


Christopher as to what should be done with her. Even 
Mrs. Sharp had been so smitten with pity by the 
scene she had witnessed when she was summoned up¬ 
stairs to fetch Caterina, as to shed a small tear, 
though she was not at all subject to that weakness; 
indeed, she abstained from it on principle, because, 
as she often said, it was known to be the worst thing 
in the world for the eyes. 

On the way back to her hotel, Lady Cheverel 
turned over various projects in her mind regarding 
Caterina, but at last one gained the preference over 
all the rest. Why should they not take the child to 
England, and bring her up there? They had been 
married twelve years, yet Cheverel Manor was 
cheered by no children’s voices, and the old house 
would be all the better for a little of that music. Be¬ 
sides, it would be a Christian work to train this lit¬ 
tle Papist into a good Protestant, and graft as much 
Elnglish fruit as possible on the Italian stem. 

Sir Christopher listened to this plan with hearty 
acquiescence. He loved children, and took at once 
to the little black-eyed monkey—his name for Cat¬ 
erina all through her short life. But neither he nor 
Lady Cheverel had any idea of adopting her as their 
daughter, and giving her their own rank in life. 
They were much too English and aristocratic to 
think of anything so romantic. No! the child would 
be brought up at Cheverel Manor as a protegee, to be 
ultimately useful, perhaps, in sorting worsteds, 
keeping accounts, reading aloud, and otherwise sup¬ 
plying the place of spectacles when her ladyship’s 
eyes should wax dim. 

So Mrs. Sharp had to procure new clothes, to re¬ 
place the linen cap, flowered frock, and leathern 
boots; and now, strange to say, little Caterina, who 
had suffered many unconscious evils in her existence 


52 


Mr. Gilfil/s Love Story 


of thirty moons, first began to know conscious troubles. 
“Ignorance,” says Ajax, “is a painless evil ;” 19 ^ so, I 
should think, is dirt, considering the merry faces 
that go along with it. At any rate, cleanliness is 
sometimes a painful good, as any one can vouch who 
has had his face washed the wrong way, by a pitiless 
hand with a gold ring on the third finger. If you, 
reader, have not known that initiatory anguish, it is 
idle to expect that you will form any approximate 
conception of what Caterina endured under Mrs. 
Sharp’s new dispensation of soap-and-water. Hap¬ 
pily, this purgatory came presently to be associated 
in her tiny brain with a passage straightway to a 
seat of bliss—the sofa in Lady Cheverel’s sitting- 
room, where there were toys to be broken, a ride 
was to be had on Sir Christopher’s knee, and a span¬ 
iel of resigned temper was prepared to undergo 
small tortures without flinching. 

19 That ignorance which in childhood is unconscious of 
good and evil does not bring pain and suffering. Eliot is 
translating front the play Ajax, line 554, of Sophocles, 
495-405 B. O., regarded by many as the greatest writer 
of tragedies in Greece. 

After the death of Achilles, Ajax lost to the wiser and 
more wily Ulysses the armor of the dead hero. His dis¬ 
appointment, his fate, and his lack of self-control drove 
Ajax to madness and suicide. The quotation is taken from 
the point in the play where for a little while Ajax has 
regained his senses and is bidding his son, Eurysaces, a 
tender and touching farewell. 

Thomas Gray may have had this line in mind when, 
looking at the Eton College boys while they were at play, 
he wrote: 

“-where ignorance is bliss, 

’Tis folly to be wise.” 

That Eliot was reading the play when she was writing 
Mr. Gilfil we know from a statement in the Journals, vol. 
1, page 305. 




CHAPTER IV 


In three months from the time of Caterina’s adop¬ 
tion—namely, in the late autumn of 1763 1 —the 
chimneys of Cheverel Manor were sending up un¬ 
wonted smoke, and the servants were awaiting in 
excitement the return of their master and mistress 
after a two years’ absence. Great was the astonish¬ 
ment of Mrs. Bellamy, the housekeeper, when Mr. 
Warren lifted a little black-eyed child out of the 
carriage, and great was Mrs. Sharp’s sense of su¬ 
perior information and experience, as she detailed 
Caterina’s history, interspersed with copious com¬ 
ments, to the rest of the upper servants that even¬ 
ing, as they were taking a comfortable glass of grog 
together in the housekeeper’s room. 

A pleasant room it was as any party need desire 
to muster in on a cold November evening. The fire¬ 
place alone was a picture: a wide and deep recess 
with a low brick altar in the middle, where great 
logs of dry wood sent myriad sparks up the dark 
chimney-throat; and over the front of this recess a 
large wooden entablature bearing this motto, finely 
carved in old English letters, “Fear God and honour 
the King.” And beyond the party, who formed a 
half-moon with their chairs and well-furnished table 
round this bright fireplace, what a space of chiar¬ 
oscuro 2 for the imagination to revel in! Stretching 
across the far end of the room, what an oak table, 


"This date is incorrect, but it was so given in Black¬ 
wood's Magazine and in tbe first book edition. Mr. Gil fit 
opens in 1788, at which time Caterina was eighteen. She 
was about three years old when Sir Christopher and his 
lady returned to England; hence the date should be 1773. 

z The blending of light and shade in a picture. From 
Italian chiaro, clear; o'bscuro, obscure. 

[53] 



54 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


high enough surely for Homer’s 3 gods, standing on 
four massive legs, bossed and bulging like sculp¬ 
tured urns! and, lining the distant wall, what vast 
cupboards, suggestive of inexhaustible apricot jam 
and promiscuous butler’s perquisites! A stray pic¬ 
ture or two had found their way down there, and 
made agreeable patches of dark brown on the buff- 
coloured walls. High over the loud-resounding 
double door hung one which, from some indications 
of a face looming out of blackness, might, by a great 
synthetic effort, be pronounced a Magdalen. Con¬ 
siderably lower down hung the similitude of a hat 
and feathers, with portions of a ruff, stated by Mrs. 
Bellamy to represent Sir Francis Bacon, 4 * * * who in¬ 
vented gunpowder, and, in her opinion, “might ha’ 
been better emplyed.” 

But this evening the mind is slightly arrested by 
the great Verulam, and is in the humour to think a 
dead philosopher less interesting than a living gar¬ 
dener, who sits conspicuous in the half-circle round 
the fireplace. Mr. Bates is habitually a guest in the 
housekeeper’s room of an evening, preferring the 
social pleasures there—the feast of gossip and the 
flow of grog 8 —to a bachelor’s chair in his charming 

3 Greek epic poet, author of the Iliad and the Odyssey. 

4 An English lawyer, scientist, and philosopher, 1561-1626. 
He was made Baron Verulam in 1618, and Viscount St. 
Albans in 1621. Famous in literature as the author of 

Essays. He had nothing to do with the invention of gun¬ 
powder, which was known long before his birth. Mrs. 

Bellamy has confused Francis Bacon with Roger Bacon, 
12147-1294?, an English monk and scientist who is said 

to have invented gunpowder. The story of the invention 

by Roger Bacon is probably false also. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


55 


thatched cottage on a little island, where every 
sound is remote but the cawing of rooks 0 and the 
screaming of wild geese: poetic sounds, doubtless, 
but, humanly speaking, not convivial. 

Mr. Bates was by no means an average person, to 
be passed without special notice. He was a sturdy 
Yorkshireman, approaching forty, whose face Na¬ 
ture seemed to have coloured when she was in a 
hurry, and had no time to attend to nuances , * * * * 7 8 for 
every inch of him visible above his neckcloth was of 
one impartial redness; so that when he was at some 
distance your imagination was at liberty to place 
his lips anywhere between his nose and chin. Seen 
closer, his lips were discerned to be of a peculiar 
cut, and I fancy this had something to do with the 
peculiarity of his dialect, which, as we shall see, 
was individual rather than provincial. Mr. Bates 
was further distinguished from the common herd 
by a perpetual blinking of the eyes; and this, to¬ 
gether with the red-rose tint of his complexion, and 
a way he ha<d of hanging his head forward, and 
rolling it from side to side as he walked, gave him 
the air of a Bacchus 5 in a blue apron, who, in the 
present reduced circumstances of Olympus, had 
taken to the management of his own vines, yet, as 
gluttons are often thin, so sober men are often rubi¬ 
cund; and Mr. Bates was sober, with that manly, 
British, churchman-like sobriety which can carry a 

This is a play on Pope’s words, “The Feast of Reason 

and the flow of Soul”; Imitations of Horace, Satire T. 128. 

Grog is an unsweetened mixture of spirits and water. 

®A kind of crow. 

7 A shade of difference in color. 

8 The god of wine, more often called Dionysius in Greek 
mythology. One of Homer’s gods referred to on the pre¬ 
ceding page. Mt. Olympus was the home of the gods. 



56 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


few glasses of grog without any perceptible clarifi¬ 
cation of ideas. 

“Dang my boottons!” 9 observed Mr: Bates, who, 
at the conclusion of Mrs. Sharp’s narrative, felt 
himself urged to the strongest interjection, “it’s 
what I shouldn’t ha’ looked for from Sir Cristhifer 
an’ my ledy, to bring a furrin child into the coofi- 
thry; an’ depend on’t, whether you an’ me lives to 
see’t or noo, it’ll coom to soom harm. The first sitia- 
tion iver I held— it was a hold hancient habbey, 10 
wi’ the biggest orchard o’ apples an’ pears you ever 
see—there was a French valet, an’ he stool silk 
stoockins, an’ shirts, an’ rings, an’ everythin’ he 
could ley his hans on, an’ run awey at last wi’ th’ 
missis’s jewl-box. They’re all alaike, them furrin- 
ers. It roons i’ th’ blood.’’ 

“Well,” said Mrs. Sharp, with the air of a person 
who held liberal views, but knew where to draw the 
line, “I’m not a-going to defend the furriners, for 
I’ve as good reason to know what they' are as most 
folks, an’ nobody’ll iver hear me say but what they’re 
next door to heathens, and the hile 11 they eat wi’ 
their victuals is enough to turn any Christian’s 
stomach. But for all that—an’ for all as the trouble 
in respect o’ washin’ and managin’ has fell upo’ me 
through the journey—I can’t say but what I think 
as my Lady an’ Sir Cristifer’s done a right thing 
by a hinnicent child as doesn’t know its right han’ 
from its left, i’ bringing it where it’ll learn to speak 
summat better nor gibberish, and be brought up i’ 

"“Dang my buttons”—a mild oath used among English 
country people. 

10 An “old ancient abbey.” Mr. Bates’s dialect is not 
difficult if read with a little care. 

“Oil. The “oi” sound was throughout the eighteenth cen¬ 
tury pronounced “ai” as in aisle. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


57 


the true religion. For as for them furrin churches 
as Sir Cristifer is so unaccountable mad after, wi’ 
picturs o’ men an’ women a-showing themselves 
just for all the world as God made ’em, I think, for 
my part, as it’s welly 12 a sin to go into ’em.” 

“You’re likely to have more foreigners, however,” 
said Mr. Warren, who liked to provoke the gardener, 
“for Sir Christopher has engaged some Italian work¬ 
men to help in the alterations in the house.” 

“Operations!” exclaimed Mrs. Bellamy, in alarm. 
“What operations?” 

“Why,” answered Mr. Warren, “Sir Christopher, 
as I understand, is going to make a clean new thing 
of the old Manor-house, both inside and out. And 
he’s got portfolios full of plans and pictures coming. 
It is to be cased with stone, in the Gothic style— 
pretty near like the churches, you know, as far as 
I can make out; and the ceilings are to be beyond 
anything as has been seen in the country. Sir Chris¬ 
topher’s been giving a deal of study to it.” 

“Dear heart alive!” said Mrs. Bellamy, “we shall 
be pisined wi’ lime and plaster, and hev the house 
full o’ workmen colloguing 13 wi’ the maids, an’ meck- 
in’ no end o’ mischief.” 

“That ye may ley your life on, Mrs. Bellamy,” 
said Mr. Bates. “Howiver, I’ll noot denay that the 
Goothic stayle’s prithy anoof, an’ it’s woonderful 
how near them stoon-carvers cuts oot the shapes 
o’ the pineapples, an’ shamrucks, an’ rooses. I dare 
sey Sir Christhifer’ll meek a naice thing o’ the 
Manor, an’ there woont be many gentlemen’s houses 
i’ the coonthry as ’ll coom up to’t, wi’ sich a garden 

13 Well-nigh, almost (Eng. dial). 

]3 Tq meet secretly, with evil intentions. Formed from 
collude, to make secret agreement for wrongful purposes 

(Eng. dial), 



58 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


an’ pleasure-groons an’ wall-fruit as King George 
maight be prood on.” 

“Well, I can’t think as th’ house can be bettered 
nor it is, Gothic or no Gothic,” said Mrs. Bellamy; 
“an’ I’ve done the picklin’ and preservin’ in it four¬ 
teen year Michaelmas 14 was a three weeks. But what 
does my lady say to’t?” 

“My lady knows better than cross Sir Cristifer 
in what he’s set his mind on,” said Mr. Bellamy, who 
objected to the critical tone of the conversation. 
“Sir Cristifer’ll hev his own way, that you may tek 
your oath. An’ i’ the right on’t too. He’s a gentle¬ 
man born, an’s got the money. But come, Mester 
Bates, fill your glass, an’ we’ll drink health an’ hap¬ 
piness to his honour an’ my lady, and then you shall 
give us a sung. Sir Cristifer doesn’t come hum from 
Italy ivery night.” 

This demonstrable position was accepted without 
hesitation as grounds for a toast; but Mr. Bates, 
apparently thinking that his song was not an equally 
reasonable sequence, ignored the second part of Mr. 
Bellamy’s proposal. So Mrs. Sharp, who had been 
heard to say that she had no thoughts at all of mar¬ 
rying Mr. Bates, though he was “a sensable fresh- 
coloured man as many a woman ’ud snap at for a 
husband,” enforced Mr. Bellamy’s appeal. 

“Come, Mr. Bates, let us hear ‘Roy’s Wife/ I’d 
rether hear a good old sung like that, nor all the 
fine ’talian toodlin’.” 15 

Mr. Bates, urged thus flatteringly, stuck his 
thumbs into t^he armholes of his waistcoat, threw 
himself back in his chair with his head in that posi¬ 
tion in which he could look directly towards the 


14 Feast day in honor of St. Michael; September 29. 
15 Italian humming or singing in a low tone. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


59 


zenith, and struck up a remarkably staccato 16 rend¬ 
ering of “Roy’s Wife ,of Aldivalloch.” 17 This melody 
may certainly be taxed with expressive iteration, but 
that was precisely its highest recommendation to 
the present audience, who found it all the easier to 
swell the chorus. Nor did it at all diminish their 
pleasure that the only particular concerning “Roy’s 
Wife” which Mr. Bates’s enunciation allowed them 
to gather, was that she “chated” 18 him,—whether in 
the matter of garden stuff or of some other com¬ 
modity, or why her name should, in consequence, 
be repeatedly reiterated with exultation, remaining 
an agreeable mystery. 

Mr. Bates’s song formed the climax of the eve¬ 
ning’s good-fellowship, and the party soon after dis¬ 
persed—Mrs. Bellamy perhaps to dream of quick¬ 
lime flying among her preserving-pans, or of love¬ 
sick housemaids reckless of unswept corners—and 
Mrs. Sharp to sink into pleasant visions of inde¬ 
pendent housekeeping in Mr. Bates’s cottage, with 
no bells to answer, and with fruit and vegetables ad 
libitum 

Caterina soon conquered all prejudices against 
her foreign blood; for what prejudices will hold out 
against helplessness and broken prattle? She became 
the pet of the household, thrusting Sir Christopher’s 
favorite bloodhound of that day, Mrs. Bellamy’s 
two canaries, and Mr. Bates’s largest Dorking 20 hen, 

16 Marked by aDrupt, sharp emphasis. 

17 This is a Scotch song, written by a Mrs. Grant, 1763- 
1814. It is said to have been founded on fact. The air 
to which the lyric was written was known as “The Ruf- 
fiian’s Rant.” 

18 Cheated. 

19 At pleasure: for as much as she desired. 

20 A breed of domestic fowl, developed in Dorking, Eng¬ 
land ; good layers 



60 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


into a merely secondary position. The consequence 
was, that in the space of a summer’s day she went 
through a great cycle of experiences, commencing 
with the somewhat acidulated goodwill of Mrs. 
Sharp’s nursery discipline. Then came the grave 
luxury of her ladyship’s sitting-room, and, perhaps, 
the dignity of a ride on Sir Christopher’s knee, some¬ 
times followed by a visit with him to the stables, 
where Caterina soon learned to hear without crying 
the baying of the chained bloodhounds, and to say, 
with ostentatious bravery, clinging to Sir Christo¬ 
pher’s leg all the while, “Dey not hurt Tina.” Then 
Mrs. Bellamy would perhaps be going out to gather 
the rose-leaves and lavender, and Tina was made 
proud and happy by being allowed to carry a hand- 
full in her pinafore; happier still, when they were 
spread out on sheets to dry, so that she could sit 
down like a frog among them, and have them poured 
over her in fragrant showers. Another frequent 
pleasure was to take a journey with Mr. Bates 
through the kitchen-gardens and the hot-houses, 
where the rich bunches of green and purple grapes 
hung from the roof, far out of reach of the tiny 
yellow hand that couldn’t help stretching itself out 
towards them; though the hand was sure at last to 
be satisfied with some delicate-flavoured fruit or 
sweet-scented flower. Indeed, in the long monoton¬ 
ous leisure of that great country-house, you may be 
sure there was always someone who had nothing 
better to do than to play with Tina. So that the 
little southern bird had its northern nest lined with 
tenderness, and caresses, and pretty things. A lov¬ 
ing sensitive nature was too likely, under such nur¬ 
ture, to have its susceptibility heightened into un¬ 
fitness for an encounter with any harder experience; 
all the more, because there were gleams of fierce 


MR. Gilfil’s Love Story 


61 


resistance to any discipline that had a harsh or un¬ 
loving aspect. For the only thing in wjhich Cater- 
ina showed any precocity was a certain ingenuity in 
vindictiveness. When she was five years old she 
had revenged herself for an unpleasalnt prohibition 
by pouring the ink into Mrs. Sharp’s work-basket; 
and once, when Lady Cheverel took her doll from 
her, because she was affectionately licking the paint 
off its face, the little minx straightway climbed on a 
chair and threw down a flower-vase that stood on 
a bracket. This was almost the only instance in 
which her anger overcame her awe of Lady Cheverel, 
who had the ascendancy always belonging to kind¬ 
ness that never melts into caresses, and is severely 
but uniformly beneficent. 

By-and-by the happy monotony of Cheverel Manor 
was broken in upon in the way Mr. Warren had an¬ 
nounced. The roads through fyhe park were cut up 
by wagons carrying loads of stone from a neigh¬ 
bouring quarry, the green courtyard became dusty 
with lime, and the peaceful house rang with the 
sound of tools. For the next ten years Sir Christo¬ 
pher was occupied with the architectural metamor¬ 
phosis of his old family mansion; thus antici¬ 
pating, through the prompting of his indk 
vidual taste, that general reaction from the 
insipid imitation of the Palladian 21 style, to¬ 
wards a restoration of the Gothic, which 
marked the close of the eighteenth century. This 
was the object he had set his heart on, with a single¬ 
ness of determination which was regarded with not 
a little contempt by his fox-hunting neighbors, who 

21 A tasteless and dull style of architecture developed by 
Andrea Palladio, 1518-1580. It was supposed to have been 
founded on the architecture of ancient Rome, and abounds 
in decorative columns and formal ornaments. 



62 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


wondered greatly that a man with some of the best 
blood in England in his veins should be mean 
enough to economise in his cellar, and reduce his 
stud"* to two old coach-horses and a hack, for the 
sake of riding a hobby, and playing the architect. 
Their wives did not see so much, to blame in the 
matter of the cellar and stables, but they were elo¬ 
quent in pity for poor Lady Cheverel, who had to 
live in no more than three rooms at once, and who 
must be distracted with noises, and have her con¬ 
stitution undermined by unhealthy smells. It wa3 
as bad as having a husband with an asthma. Why 
did not 'Sir Christopher take a house for her at 
Bath,^ or, at least, if he must spend his time in over¬ 
looking workmen, somewhere in the neighbourhood 
of the Manor? This pity was quite gratuitous, as 
the most plentiful pity always is; for though Lady 
Cheverel did not share her husband’s architectural 
enthusiasm, she had too rigorous a view of a wife’s 
duties, and too profound a deference for Sir Chris¬ 
topher, to regard submission as a grievance. As for 
Sir Christopher, he was perfectly indifferent to criti¬ 
cism. “An obstinate, crotchety man,” said his 
neighbours. But I, who have seen Cheverel Manor, 
as he bequeathed it to his heirs, rather attribute that 
unswerving architectural purpose of his, conceived 
and carried out through long years of systematic 
personal exertion, to something of the fervour of 
genius, as well as inflexibility of will; and in walk¬ 
ing through those rooms, with their splendid ceil¬ 
ings and their meagre furniture, which tells how 
all the spare money had been absorbed before per¬ 
sonal comfort was thought of, I have felt that there 

22 A collection or stable of horses for riding, racing, etc. 
famous watering town in southern England, a most 
popular resort during the eighteenth century. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


63 


dwelt in this old English baronet some of that sub¬ 
lime spirit which distinguishes art from luxury, and 
worships beauty apart from self-indulgence. 

While Cheverel Manor was growing from ugliness 
into beauty, Caterina too was growing from a little 
yellow bantling into a whiter maiden, with no posi¬ 
tive beauty indeed, but with a certain light airy 
grace, which, with her large appealing dark eyes, 
and a voice that, in its low-toned tenderness, re¬ 
called the love-notes of the stock-dove, gave her a 
more than usual charm. Unlike the building, how¬ 
ever, Caterina’s development was the result of no 
systematic or careful appliances. She grew up very 
much like the primrose, which the gardener is not 
sorry to see within his enclosure, but takes no pains 
to cultivate. Lady Cheverel taught her to read and 
write, and say her catechism; Mr. Warren, being a 
good accountant, gave her lessons in arithmetic, by 
her ladyship’s desire; and Mrs. Sharp initiated her 
in all the mysteries of the needle. But, for a long 
time, there was no thought of giving her any more 
elaborate education. It is very likely that to her 
dying day Caterina thought the earth stood still, 
and that the sun and stars moved around it; but 
so, for the matter of that, did Helen, 24 and Dido, and 
Desdemona, and Juliet; whence I hope you will not 
think my Caterina less worthy to be heroine on that 
account. The truth is, that with one exception, her 

24 Helen —wife of Menelaus, King of Sparta; her elope¬ 
ment with Paris to Troy caused the Trojan War, cele¬ 
brated in Homer’s Iliad. Dido —reputed founder of Carth¬ 
age; fell in love with Aeneas, and when he desertbd her, 
she killed herself. Desdemona —daughter of a Venetian 
senator; eloped with Othello, who becoming jealous, killed 
her. Juliet —heroine of Shakespeare’s play Romeo and 
Juliet; her love led to her death. 



64 Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 

only talent lay in loving; and there, it is probable, 
the most astronomical of women could not have sur¬ 
passed her. Orphan and protegee though she was, 
this supreme talent of hers found plenty of exercise 
at Cheverel Manor, and Caterina had more people 
to love than many a small lady and gentleman 
affluent in silver mugs and blood relations. I think 
the first place in her childish heart was given to 
Sir Christopher, for little girls are apt to attach 
themselves to the finest-looking gentleman at hand, 
especially as he seldom has anything to do with dis¬ 
cipline. Next to the Baronet came Dorcas, the merry 
rosy-cheeked damsel who was Mrs. Sharp’s lieu¬ 
tenant in the nursery, and thus played the part of 
the raisins in a dose of senna. 25 It was a black day 
for Caterina when Dorcas married the coachman, 
and went, with a great sense of elevation in the 
world, to preside over a “public” 26 in the noisy town 
of Sloppeter. A little china box, bearing the motto 
“Though lost to sight, to memory dear,” which Dor¬ 
cas sent her as a remembrance, was among Cater- 
ina’s treasures ten years after. 

The one other exceptional talent, you already guess, 
was music. When the fact that Caterina had a re¬ 
markable ear for music, and a still more remarkable 
Voice, attracted Lady ChevereT<s notice, the dis¬ 
covery was very welcome both to her and Sir Chris¬ 
topher. Her musical education became at once an 
object of interest. Lady Cheverel devoted much 
time to it; and the rapidity of' Tina’s progress sur¬ 
passing all hopes, an Italian singing-master was en¬ 
gaged, for several years, to spend some months to¬ 
gether at Cheverel Manor. This unexpected gift 

25 Senna leaves, used as a medicine, make a bitter dose; 
raisins are added to sweeten. 

26 A tavern, a public bouse. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


65 


made a great alteration in Caterina’s position. After 
those first years in which little girls are petted like 
puppies and kittens, there comes a time when it 
seems less lobvious what they can be good for, 
especially when, like Caterina, they give no partic¬ 
ular promise of cleverness or beauty; and it is 
not surprising that in that uninteresting period 
there was no particular plan formed as to her 
future position. She could always help Mrs. 
Sharp, supposing she were fit for nothing else, 
as she grew up; but now, this rare gift 
of song endeared her to Lady Cheverel, who 
loved music above all things, and it associated her 
at once with the pleasures of the drawing-room. 
Insensibly she came to be regarded as one of the 
family, and the servants began to understand that 
Miss Sarti was to be a lady after all. 

“And the raight on’t too,” said Mr. Bates, “for 
she hasn’t the cut of a gell as must work for her 
bread; she’s as nesh an’ dilicate 27 as a paich-blos- 
som—welly laike a linnet, wi’ on’y joost body anoof 
to hold her voice.” 

But long before Tina had reached this stage of 
her history, a new era had begun for her, in the arriv¬ 
al of a younger companion than any she had hitherto 
known. When she was no more than seven, a ward 
of Sir Christopher’s—a lad of fifteen, Maynard 
Gilfil by name—began to spend his vacations at 
Cheverel Manor, and found there no playfellow so 
much t/o his mind as Caterina. Maynard was an 
affectionate lad, who retained a propensity to white 
rabbits, pet squirrels, and guinea-pigs, perhaps a lit¬ 
tle beyond the age at which young gentlemen usu¬ 
ally look down on such pleasures as puerile. He 
was also much given to fishing, and to carpentry, 

^Tender and delicate (Eng. dial). 



66 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


considered as a fine art, without any base view to 
utility. And in all these pleasures it was his de¬ 
light to have Caterina as his companion, to call her 
little pet names, answer her wondering questions, 
and have her toddling after him as you may have 
seen a Blenheim spaniel trotting after a large set¬ 
ter. Whenever Maynard went back to school, there 
was a little scene of parting. 

“You won’t forget me, Tina, before I come back 
again? I shall leave you all the whip-cord we’ve 
made; and don’t you let Guinea die. Come, give 
me a kiss, and promise not to forget me.” 

As\ the years wore on, and Maynard passed from 
school to college, and from a slim lad to a stalwart 
young man, their companionship in the vacations 
necessarily took a different form, but it retained a 
brotherly and sisterly familiarity. With Maynard 
the boyish affection had insensibly grown into ardent 
love. Among all the many kinds of first love, that 
which begins in childish companionship is the 
strongest and most enduring: when passion comes to 
unite its force to long affection, love is at its spring- 
tide. And Maynard Gilfil’s love was of a kind to make 
him prefer being tormented by Caterina to any 
pleasure, apart from her, which the most benevolent 
magician could have devised for him. It is the way 
with those tall large-limbed men, from Sampson 
downwards. As for Tina, the little minx was per¬ 
fectly well aware that Maynard was her slave; he 
was the one person in the world whom she did as 
she< pleased with; and I need not tell you that this 
was a symptom of her being perfectly heart-whole 
as far as he was concerned: for a passionate wo¬ 
man’s love is always overshadowed by fear. 

Maynard Gilfil did not deceive himself in his in¬ 
terpretation of Caterina’s feelings, but he nursed 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


67 


the hope that some time or other she would at least 
care enough for him to accept his love. So he wait¬ 
ed patiently for the day when he might venture to 
say, “Caterina, I love you!” You see, he would have 
been content with very little, being one of those 
men who pass through life without making the least 
clamour about themselves; thinking neither the cut 
of his coat, nor the flavour of his soup, nor the pre¬ 
cise depth of a servant’s bow, at all momentous. 
He thought—foolishly enough, as lovers will think— 
that it was a good augury for him when he came to 
be domesticated at Cheverel Manor in the quality 
of chaplain there, and curate of a neighboring 
parish; judging falsely, from his own case, that habit 
and affection were the likeliest avenues to love. Sir 
Christopher satisfied several feelings in installing 
Maynard as chaplain in his house. He liked the 
old-fashioned dignity of that domestic appendage; 
he liked his ward’s companionship; and, as Maynard 
had some private fortune, he might take life easily 
in that agreeable home, keeping his hunter, and 
observing a mild regimen of clerical duty, until the 
Cumbermoor living should fall in , 28 when he might 
be settled for life in the neighbourhood of the 
Manor. “With Caterina for a wife, too,” Sir Chris¬ 
topher soon began to think; for though the good 
Baronet was not at all quick to suspect what was 
unpleasant and opposed to his views of fitness, he 
was quick to see what would dovetail with his own 
plans; and he had first guessed, and then ascer¬ 
tained, by direct inquiry, the state of Maynard’s feel¬ 
ings. He* at once leaped to the conclusion that Cat¬ 
erina was of the same mind, or at least would be, 
when she was -old enough. But these were too early 
days for anything definite to be said or done. 


2S Become available. 



68 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


Meanwhile, new circumstances were arising, 
which, though they made no change in Sir Christo¬ 
pher’s plans and prospects, converted Mr. Gilfil’s 
hopes into anxieties, and made it clear to him not 
only that Caterina’s heart was never likely to be 
his, but that it was given entirely to another. 

Once or twice in Caterina’s childhood, there had 
been another boy-visitor at the Manor, younger than 
Maynard Gilfil—a beautiful boy with brown curls 
and splendid clothes, on whom Caterina had looked 
with shy admiration. This was Anthony Wybrow, 
the son of Sir Christopher’s younger sister, and 
chosen heir of Cheverel Manor. The Baronet had 
sacrificed a large sum, and even straitened the re¬ 
sources by which he was to carry out his architect¬ 
ural schemes, for the sake of removing the entail 20 
from his estate, and making this boy his heir— 
moved to the step, I am sorry to say, by an implac¬ 
able quarrel with his eldest sister; for a power of 
forgiveness was not among Sir Christopher’s vir¬ 
tues. At length, on the death of Anthony’s mother, 
when he was no longer a curly-headed boy, but a 
tall young man, with a captain’s commission, Chev¬ 
erel Manor became his home too, whenever he was 
absent from his regiment. Caterina was then a lit¬ 
tle woman, between sixteen and seventeen, and I 
need not spend many words in explaining what you 
perceive to be the most natural thing in the world. 

There was little company kept at the Manor, and 
Captain Wybrow would have been much duller if 
Caterina had not been there. It was pleasant to pay 
her attentions—to speak to her in gentle tones, to 
see her little flutter of pleasure, the blush that just 

29 By paying a certain sum of money Sir Christopher was 
able to remove the legal restrictions which otherwise would 
have prevented him from disposing his estate as he wished. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


6y 

lit up her pale cheek, and the momentary timid 
glance of her dark eyes, when he praised her sing¬ 
ing, leaning at her side over the piano. Pleasant, 
to;o, to cut out that chaplain, with his large calves! 
What idle man can withstand the temptation of a 
wioman to fascinate, and another man to eclipse?— 
especially when it is quite clear to himself that he 
means no mischief, and shall leave everything to 
come right again by-and-by. At the end of eighteen 
months, however, during which Captain Wybrow 
had spent much of his time at the Manor, he found 
that matters had reached a point which he had not 
at all contemplated. Gentle tones had led to tender 
words, and tender words had called forth a response 
of looks which made it impossible not to carry on 
the crescendo 30 of love-making. To find one’s-self 
adored by a little, graceful, dark-eyed, sweet-singing 
woman whom no one need despise, is an agreeable sen¬ 
sation, comparable to smoking the finest Latakia , 31 and 
also imposes some return of tenderness as a duty. 

Perhaps you think that Captain Wybrow, who 
knew that it would be ridiculous to dream of his 
marrying Caterina, must have been a reckless liber¬ 
tine to win her affections in this manner! Not at 
all. He was a young man of calm passions, who 
was rarely led into any conduct of which he could 
not give a plausible account to himself; and the 
tiny fragile Caterina was a woman who touched the 
imaginations and the affections rather than the 
senses. He really felt very kindly towards her, and 
would very likely have loved her—if he had been 
able to love any one. But nature had not endowed 
him with that capability. She had given him an 
admirable figure, the whitest of hands, the most 

30 Slowly increasing in power or force. 

37 A superior grade of Turkish tobacco. 



70 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


delicate of nostrils, and a large amount of serene 
self-satisfaction; but, as if to save such a delicate 
piece of work from any risk of being shattered, she 
had guarded him from the liability to a strong emo¬ 
tion. There was no list of youthful misdemeanors 
on record against him, and Sir Christopher and Lady 
Cheverel thought him the best of nephews, the most 
satisfactory of heirs, full of grateful deference to 
themselves, and, above all things, guided by a sense 
of duty. Captain Wybrow always did the thing 
easiest and most agreeable to him from a sense of 
duty: he dressed expensively, because it was a duty 
he owed to his position; from a sense of duty he 
adapted himself to Sir Christopher’s inflexible will, 
which it would have been troublesome as well as 
useless to resist; and, being of a delicate constitu¬ 
tion, he took care of his health from a sense of duty. 
His health was the only point on which he gave 
anxiety to his friends; and it was owing to this that 
Sir Christopher wished to see his nephew early mar¬ 
ried, the more so as a match after the Baronet’s own 
heart appeared immediately attainable. Anthony 
had seen and admired Miss Assher, the only child 
of a lady who had been Sir Christopher’s earliest 
love, but who, as things will happen in this world, 
had married another baronet instead of him. Miss 
Assher’s father was now dead, and she was in pos¬ 
session of a pretty estate. If, as was probable, she 
should prove susceptible to the merits of Anthony’s 
person and character, nothing could make Sir Chris¬ 
topher so happy as to see a marriage which might 
be expected to secure the inheritance of Cheverel 
Manor from getting into the wrong hands. Anthony 
had already been kindly received by Lady Assher 
as the nephew of her early friend; why should he 
not go to Bath, where she and her daughter were 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 71 

then residing-, follow up the acquaintance and win 
a handsome, well-born, and sufficiently wealthy bride? 

Sir Christopher’s wishes were communicated to 
his nephew, who at once intimated his willingness 
to comply with them—from a sense of duty. Cater- 
ina was tenderly informed by her lover of the sacri¬ 
fice demanded from them both; and three days after¬ 
wards occurred the parting scene you have witnessed 
in the gallery, on the eve of Captain Wybrow’s de¬ 
parture for Bath. 


CHAPTER V 


The inexorable ticking of the clock is like the 
throb of pain to sensations made keen by a sicken¬ 
ing fear. And so it is with the great clockwork of 
nature. Daisies and buttercups give way to the 
brown waving grasses, tinged with the warm red 
sorrel; the waving grasses are swept away, and the 
meadows lie like emeralds set in the bushy hedge¬ 
rows ; the tawny-tipped corn 1 begins to bow with the 
weight of the full ear; the reapers are bending 
amongst it, and it soon stands in sheaves; then, 
presently, the patches of yellow stubble lie side by 
side with streaks of dark-red earth, which the plough 
is turning up in preparation for the new-thrashed 
seed. And this passage from beauty to beauty, 
which to the happy is like the flow of a melody, 
measures for many a human heart the approach of 
foreseen anguish—seems hurrying on the moment 
when the shadow of dread will be followed up by 
the reality of despair. 

How cruelly hasty that summer of 1788 seemed 
to Caterina! Surely the roses vanished earlier, and 
the berries on the mountain-ash were more impatient 
to redden, and bring on the autumn, when she would 
be face to face with her misery, and witness An¬ 
thony giving all his gentle tones, tender words, and 
soft looks to another. 

Before the end of July, Captain Wybrow had writ¬ 
ten word that Lady Assher and her daughter were 
about to fly from the heat and gaiety of Bath to 
the shady quiet of their place at Farleigh, and that 
he was invited to join the party there. His letters 
implied that he was on an excellent footing with 


^Vheat. 


[ 72 ] 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


73 


both the ladies, and gave no hint of a rival; so that 
Sir Christopher was more than usually bright and 
cheerful after reading them. At length, towards 
the close of August, came the announcement that 
Captain Wybrow was an accepted lover, and after 
much complimentary and congratulatory corres¬ 
pondence between the two families, it was under¬ 
stood that in September Lady Assher and her daugh¬ 
ter would pay a visit to Cheverel Manor, when Beat¬ 
rice would make the acquaintance of her future rel¬ 
atives, and all needful arrangements could be dis¬ 
cussed. Captain Wybrow would remain at Farleigh 
till then, and accompany the ladies on their journey. 

In the interval, every one at Cheverel Manor had 
something to do by way of preparing for the visi¬ 
tors. Sir Christopher was occupied in consultations 
with his steward and lawyer, and in giving orders 
to every one else, especially in spurring on Fran¬ 
cesco to finish the saloon. Mr. Gilfil had the respon¬ 
sibility of procuring a lady’s horse, Miss Assher be¬ 
ing a great rider. Lady Cheverel had unwonted 
calls to make and invitations to deliver. Mr. Bates’s 
turf, and gravel, and flower-beds were always at 
such a point of neatness and finish that nothing ex¬ 
traordinary could be done in the garden,’ except a 
little extraordinary scolding of the under-gardener, 
and this addition Mr. Bates did not neglect. 

Happily for Caterina, she too had her task, to fill 
up the long dreary day-time: it was to finish a chair 
cushion which would complete the set of embroid¬ 
ered covers for the drawing-room, Lady Cheverel’s 
year-long work, and the only noteworthy bit of fur¬ 
niture in the Manor. Over this embroidery she sat 
with cold lips and a palpitating heart, thankful that 
this miserable sensation throughout the day-time 
seemed to counteract the tendency to tears which 


74 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


returned with night and solitude. She was most 
frightened when Sir Christopher approached her. 
The Baronet’s eye was brighter and his step more 
elastic than ever, and it seemed to him that only 
the most leaden or churlish souls could be otherwise 
than brisk and exulting in a world where everything 
went so well. Dear old gentleman! he had gone 
through life a little flushed with the power of his 
will, and now his latest plan was succeeding, and 
Cheverel Manor would be inherited by a grand¬ 
nephew, whomvhe might even yet live to see a fine 
young fellow with at least the down on his chin. 
Why not? one is still young at sixty. 

Sir Christopher had always something playful to 
say to Caterina. 

“Now, little monkey, you must be in your best 
voice; you’re the minstrel of, the Manor, you know, 
and be sure you have a pretty gown and a new rib¬ 
bon. You must not be dressed in russet, though 
you are a singing-bird.” Or perhaps, “It is your 
turn to be courted next, Tina. But don’t' you learn 
any naughty proud airs. I must have Maynard let 
off easily.” 

Caterina’s affection for the old Baronet helped her 
to summon up a smile as he stroked her cheek and 
looked at her kindly, but that was the moment at 
which she felt it most difficult not to burst out cry¬ 
ing. Lady Cheverel’s conversation and presence were 
less trying; for her ladyship felt no more than calm 
satisfaction in this family event; and besides, she 
was further sobered by a little jealousy at Sir Chris¬ 
topher’s anticipation of pleasure in seeing Lady 
Assher, enshrined in his memory as a mild-eyed 
beauty of sixteen, with whom he had exchanged 
locks before he went on his first travels. Lady Chev¬ 
erel would have died rather than confess it, but she 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


75 


couldn’t help hoping that he would be disappointed 
in Lady Assher, and rather ashamed of having called 
her so charming. 

Mr. Gilfil watched Caterina through these days 
with mixed feelings. Her sufferings went to his 
heart; but, even for her sake, he was glad that a 
love which could never come to good should be no 
longer fed by false hopes; and how could he help 
saying to himself, “Perhaps, after a while, Caterina 
will be tired of fretting about that cold-hearted pup¬ 
py, and then . . .” 

At length the much-expected day arrived, and the 
brightest of September’s suns was lighting up the 
yellowing lime-trees, as about five o’clock Lady 
Assher’s carriage drove under the portico. Caterina, 
seated at work in her own room, heard the rolling 
of the wheels, followed presently by the opening and 
shutting of doors, and the sound of voices in the 
corridors. Remembering that the dinner-hour was 
six, and that Lady Cheverel had desired her to be in 
the drawing-room early, she started up to dress, and 
was delighted tio find herself feeling suddenly brave 
and strong. Curiosity to see Miss Assher—the 
thought that Anthony was in the house—the wish 
not to look unattractive, were feelings that brought 
some colour to her lips, and made it easy to attend 
to her toilette. They would ask her to sing this 
evening, and she would sing well. Miss Assher 
should not think her utterly insignificant. So she 
put on her grey silk gown and her cherry-coloured 
ribbon with as much care as if she had been herself 
the betrothed; not forgetting the pair of round pearl 
earrings which Sir Christopher had told Lady Chev¬ 
erel to give her, because Tina’s little ears were so 
pretty. 

Quick as she had been, she found Sir Christopher 


76 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


and Lady Cheverel in the drawing-room chatting 
with Mr. Gilfil, and telling him how handsome Miss 
Assher was, but how entirely unlike her mother— 
apparently resembling her father only. 

“Aha!” said Sir Christopher, as he turned to lotok 
at Caterina, “what do you think of this, Maynard? 
Did you ever see Tina look so pretty before? Why, 
that little grey gown has been made out of a bit of 
my lady’s, hasn’t it? It doesn’t take anything much 
larger than a pocket-handkerchief to dress the little 
monkey.” 

Lady Cheverel, too, serenely radiant in the assur¬ 
ance a single glance had given her of Lady Assher’s 
inferiority, smiled approval, and Caterina was in one 
of those moods of self-possession and indifference 
which come as the ebb-tide between the struggles of 
passion. She retired to the piano, and busied herself 
with arranging her music, not at all insensible to 
the pleasure of being looked at with admiration the 
while, and thinking that, the next time the door 
opened, Captain Wybrow would enter, and she would 
speak to him quite cheerfully. But when she heard 
him come in, and the scent of roses floated towards 
her, her heart gave one great leap. She knew noth¬ 
ing till he was pressing her hand, and saying, in 
the old easy way, “Well, Caterina, how do you do? 
You look quite blooming.” 

She felt her cheeks reddening with anger that he 
could speak and look with such perfect nonchal¬ 
ance. Ah! he was too deeply in love with some one 
else to remember anything he had felt for her. But 
the next moment she was conscious of her folly;— 
“as if he could show any feeling then!” This con¬ 
flict of emotions stretched into a long interval the 
few moments that elapsed before the door opened 
again, and her own attention, as well as that of all 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


77 


the rest, was absorbed by the entrance of the two 
ladies. 

The daughter was the more striking, from the con¬ 
trast she presented to her mother, a round- 
shouldered, middle-sized woman, who had once had 
the transient pink-and-white beauty of a blonde, 
with ill-defined features and early embonpoint. 2 Miss 
Assher was tall, and gracefully though substantially 
formed, carrying herself with an air of mingled 
graciousness and self-confidence; her dark brown 
hair, untouched by powder, hanging in bushy curls 
round her face, and falling behind in long thick 
ringlets nearly to her waist. The brilliant carmine 
tint of her well-rounded cheeks, and the finely-cut 
outline of her straight nose, produced an impres¬ 
sion of splendid beauty, in spite of commonplace 
brown eyes, a narrow forehead, and thin lips. She 
was in mourning, and the dead black of her crape 
dress, relieved here and there by jet ornaments, gave 
the fullest effect to her complexion, and to the round¬ 
ed whiteness of her arms, bare from the elbow. The 
first coup d’oeil* was dazzling, and as she stood look¬ 
ing down with a gracious smile on Caterina, whom 
Lady Cheverel was presenting to her, the poor little 
thing seemed to herself to feel, for the first time, all 
the folly of her former dream. 

“We are enchanted with your place, Sir Christo¬ 
pher,” said Lady Assher, with a feeble kind of pomp¬ 
ousness, which she seemed to be copying from some 
one else; “I’m sure your nephew must have thought 
Farleigh wretchedly out of order. Poor Sir John 
was so very careless about keeping up the house and 
grounds. I often talked to him about it, but he said, 
‘Pooh, pooh! as long as my friends find a good din- 

plumpness ; a mild term for fat. 

’Quick, comprehensive glance of the eye. 



78 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love story 


ner and a good bottle of wine, they won’t care about 
my ceilings being rather smoky.’ He was so very 
hospitable, was jSir John.” 

“I think the view of the house from the park, just 
after we passed the bridge, particularly fine,” said 
Miss Assher, interposing rather eagerly, as if she 
feared her mother might be making infelicitous 
speeches, “and the pleasure of the first glimpse was 
all the greater because Anthony would describe 
nothing to us beforehand. He would not spoil our 
first impressions by raising false ideas. I long to 
go over the house, Sir Christopher, and learn the 
history of all your architectural designs, which An¬ 
thony says have cost you so much time and study.” 

“Take care how you set an old man talking about 
the past, my dear,” said the Baronet; “I hope we 
shall find something pleasanter for you to do than 
turning over my old plans and pictures. Our friend 
Mr. Gilfil here has found a beautiful mare for you, 
and you can scour the country to your heart’s’ con¬ 
tent. Anthony has sent us word what a horsewoman 
you are.” 

Miss Assher turned to Mr. Gilfil with her most 
beaming smile, and expressed her thanks with the 
elaborate graciousness of a person who means to be 
thought charming, and is sure of success. 

“Pray do not thank me,” said Mr. 'Gilfil, “till you 
have tried the mare. She has been ridden by Lady 
Sara Linter for the last two years; but one lady’s 
taste may not be like another’s in horses, any more 
than in other matters.” 

While this conversation was passing, Captain Wy- 
brow was leaning against the mantlepiece, content¬ 
ing himself with responding from under his indo¬ 
lent eyelids to the glances Miss Assher was constant¬ 
ly directing towards him as she spoke. “She is very 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


79 


much in love with him,” thought Caterina. But she 
was relieved that Anthony remained passive in his 
attentions. She thought, too, that he was looking 
paler and more languid than usual. “If he didn’t 
love her very much—if he sometimes thought of the 
past with, regret, I think I could bear it all, and be 
glad to see Sir Christopher made happy.” 

During dinner there was a little incident which 
confirmed these thoughts. When the sweets were on 
the table, there was a mould of jelly just opposite 
Captain Wybrow, and being inclined to take some 
himself, he first invited Miss Assher, who coloured, 
and said, in rather a sharper key than usual, “Have 
you not learned by this time that I never take jelly?” 

“Don’t you?” said Captain Wybrow, whose percep¬ 
tions were not acute enough for him to notice the 
difference of a semitone. 4 “I should have thought 
you were fond of it. There was always some on the 
table at Farleigh, I think.” 

“You don’t seem to take much interest in my likes 
and dislikes.” 

“I’m too much possessed by the happy thought 
that you like me,” was the ex officio 5 reply, in silvery 
tones. 

This little episode was unnoticed by every one but 
Caterina. Sir Christopher was listening with polite 
attention to Lady Assher’s history of her last man- 
cook, who was first-rate at gravies, and for that rea¬ 
son pleased Sir John—he was so particular about 
his gravies, was Sir John: and so they kept the man 
six years in spite of his bad pastry. Lady Cheverel 
and Mr. Gilfil were smiling at Rupert the blood- 

4 Half a tone; an interval approximately equal to half 
a major tone. 

5 By right of office; that is, by right of his position as 
fianc£. 



80 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


hound, who had pushed his great head under his 
master’s arm, and was taking a survey of the dishes, 
after snuffing at the contents of the Baronet’s plate. 

When the ladies were in the drawing-room again, 
Lady Assher was soon deep in a statement to Lady 
Cheverel of her views about burying people in wool¬ 
len. 6 * 8 

“To be sure, you must have a woollen dress, be¬ 
cause it’s the law, you know; but that need hinder 
no one from putting linen underneath. I always used 
to say, ‘If Sir John died to-morrow, I would bury 
him in his shirt’; and I did. And let me advise you 
to do so by Sir Christopher. You never saw Sir John, 
Lady Cheverel. He was a large tall man, with a 
nose just like Beatrice, and so very particular about 
his shirts.” 

Miss Assher, meanwhile, had seated herself by 
Caterina, and with that smiling affability which 
seems to say, “I am really not at all proud though 
you might expect it of me,” said,— 

“Anthony tells me you sing so very beautifully. 
I hope we shall hear you this evening.” 

“0 yes,” said Caterina, quietly, without smiling; 
“I always sing when I am wanted to sing.” 

“I envy you such a charming talent. Do you know, 
I have no ear; I cannot hum the smallest tune, and 
I delight in music so. Is it not unfortunate? But 
I shall have quite a treat while I am here; Captain 
Wybrow says you will give us some music every 
day.” 

“I should have thought you wouldn’t care about 

6 In order to encourage the manufacture of woolen goods, 
an act was passed by Parliament in 1667 ordering funeral 
shrouds to be made of wool. The higher classes objected, 
and evaded the law from the time of its passage, as Lady 

Assher says she did, but the law remained on the statute 

books for over a hundred years. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


8j 


music if you had no ear,” said Caterina, becoming 
epigrammatic by force of grave simplicity. 

“0, I assure you, I doat on it; and Anthony is so 
fond of it; it would be so delightful if I. could play 
and sing to him; though he says he likes me best not 
to sing, because it doesn’t belong to his idea of me. 
What style of music do you like best?” 

“X don’t know. I like all beautiful music.” 

“And are you as fond of riding as of music?” 

“No; I never ride. I think I should be very fright¬ 
ened.” 

“0 no! indeed you would not, after a little prac¬ 
tice. I have never been in the least timid. I think 
Anthony is more afraid for me than I am for myself; 
and since I have been riding with him, I have been 
obliged to be more careful, because he is so nervous 
about me.” 

Caterina made no reply; but she said to herself, 
“I wish she would go away and not talk to me. She 
only wants me to admire her good-nature, and to 
talk about Anthony.” 

Miss Assher was thinking at the same time, “This 
Miss Sarti seems a stupid little thing. Those musical 
people often are. But she is prettier than I ex¬ 
pected; Anthony said she was not pretty.” 

Happily at this moment Lady Assher called her 
daughter’s attention to the embroidered cushions, 
and Miss Assher, walking to the opposite sofa, was 
soon in conversation with Lady Cheverel about tap¬ 
estry and embroidery in general, while her mother, 
feeling herself superseded there, came and placed 
herself beside Caterina. 

“I hear you are the most beautiful singer,” was of 
course the opening remark. “All Italians sing so 
beautifully. I travelled in Italy with Sir John when 
we first married, and we went to Venice, where they 


82 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


go about in gondolas, you know. You don’t wear 
powder, I see. No more will Beatrice; though many 
people think her curls would look all the better for 
powder. She has so much hair, hasn’t she? Our 
last maid dressed it muqh better than this; but, do 
you know, she wore Beatrice’s stockings before they 
went to the wash, and we couldn’t keep her after 
that, could we?” 

Caterina, accepting the question as a mere bit of 
rhetorical elfect, thought it superfluous to reply, till 
Lady Assher repeated, “Could we, now?” as if Tina’s 
sanction were essential to her repose of mind. After 
a faint “No,” she went on. 

“Maids are so very troublesome, and Beatrice is so 
particular, you can’t imagine. I often say to her, 
‘My dear, you can’t have perfection.’ That very 
gown she has on—to be sure, it fits her beautifully 
now—but it has been unmade and made up again 
twice. But she is like poor Sir John—he was so very 
particular about his own things, was Sir John. Is 
Lady Cheverel particular?” 

“Rather. But Mrs. Sharp has been her maid twen¬ 
ty years.” 

“I wish there was any chance of our keeping 
Griffin twenty years. But I am afraid we shall have 
to part with her because her health is so delicate; 
and she is so obstinate, she will not take bitters as 
I want her. You look delicate, now. Let me rec¬ 
ommend you to take camomile 7 tea in a morning, 
fasting. Beatrice is so strong and healthy, she never 
takes any medicine; but if I had had twenty girls, 
and they had been delicate, I should have given them 
all camomile tea. It strengthens the constitution be- 

7 A strong-scented lierb of the aster family, the flowers 
of which have a bitter taste, and are used as a stomachic 
tonic. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


83 


yond anything. iNfow, will you promise me to take 
camomile tea?” 

“Thank you; I’m not at all ill,” said Caterina. 
“I’ve always been pale and thin.” 

Lady Assher was sure camomile tea would make 
all the difference in the world—Caterina must see 
if it wouldn’t—and then went dribbling on like a 
leaky shower-bath, until the early entrance of the 
gentlemen created a diversion, and she fastened on 
Sir Christopher, who probably began to think that, 
for poetical purposes, it would be better not to meet 
one’s first love again, after a lapse of forty years. 

Captain Wybrow, of course, joined his aunt and 
Miss Assher, and Mr. Gilfil tried to relieve Caterina 
from the awkwardness of sitting aloof and dumb, by 
telling her how a friend of his had broken his arm 
and staked" his horse that morning, not at all ap¬ 
pearing to heed that she hardly listened, and was 
looking towards the other side of the room. One of 
the tortures of jealousy is, that it can never turn 
away its eyes from the thing that pains it. 

By-and-by every one felt the need of a relief from 
chit-chat—Sir Christopher perhaps the most of all— 
and it was he who made the acceptable proposition— 

“Come, Tina, are we to have no music to-night be¬ 
fore we sit down to cards? Your ladyship plays at 
cards, I think?” he added, recollecting himself, and 
turning to Lady Assher. 

“0 yes! Poor dear Sir John would have a whist- 
table every night.” 

Caterina sat down to the harpsichord at once, and 
had no sooner begun to sing than she perceived with 
delight that Captain Wybrow was gliding towards 
the harpsichord, and soon standing in the old place. 
This consciousness gave fresh strength to her voice; 


8 Had driven his horse onto a stake in jumping a fence. 



84 


Mr. Gilfii/s Love Story 


and when she noticed that Miss Assher presently fol¬ 
lowed him with that air of ostentatious admiration 
which belongs to the absence of real enjoyment, her 
closing bravura" was none the wor^e for being ani¬ 
mated by a little triumphant contempt. 

“Why, you are in better voice than ever, Cater- 
ina,” said Captain Wybrtow, when she had ended. 
“This is rather different from Miss Hibbert’s small 
piping that we used to be glad of at Farleigh, is it 
not, Beatrice ?” 

“Indeed it is. You are a most enviable creature, 
Miss Sarti—Caterina—may I not call you Caterina? 
for I have heard Anthony speak of you so often, I 
seem to know you quite well. You will let me call 
you Caterina ?” 

“O yes, every one calls me Caterina, only when 
they call me Tina.” 

“Come, come, more singing, more singing, little 
monkey,” Sir Christopher called out from the other 
side of the room. “We have not had half enough yet.” 

Caterina was ready enough to obey, for while she 
was singing she was queen of the room, and Miss 
Assher was reduced to grimacing admiration. Alas! 
you see what jealousy was doing in this poor young 
soul. Caterina, who had passed her life as a little 
unobtrusive singing-bird, nestling so fondly under 
the wings that were outstretched for her, her heart 
beating only to the peaceful rhythm of love, or flut¬ 
tering with some easily stifled fear, had begun to 
know the fierce palpitations of triumph and hatred. 

When the singing was over, Sir Christopher and 
Lady Cheverel sat down to whist with Lady Assher 
and Mr. Gilfil, and Caterina placed herself at the 
Baronet’s elbow, as if to watch the game, that she 

9 A showy passage requiring clash, spirit, and brilliant 
execution; a display of technical power in singing. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


85 


might not appear to thrust herself on the pair of 
lovers. At first she was glowing with her little 
triumph, and felt the strength of pride; but her eye 
would steal to the opposite side of the fireplace, 
where Captain Wybrow had seated himself close to 
Miss Assher, and was leaning with his arm over 
the back of the chair, in the most lover-like position. 
Caterina began to feel a choking sensation. She 
could see, almost without looking, that he was tak¬ 
ing up her arm to examine her bracelet; their heads 
were bending close together, her curls touching his 
cheek—now he was putting his lips to her hand. 
Caterina felt her cheeks burn—she could sit no long¬ 
er. She got up, pretended to be gliding about in 
search of something, and at length slipped out of 
the room. 

Outside, she took a candle, and, hurrying along 
the passages and up the stairs to her own room, 
locked the door. 

“0, I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it!” the poor 
thing burst out aloud, clasping her little fingers, and 
pressing them back against her forehead, as if she 
wanted to break them. 

Then she walked hurriedly up and down the room. 

“And this must go on for days and days, and 1 
must see it.” 

She looked about nervously for something to 
clutch. There was a muslin kerchief lying on the 
table; she took it up and tore it into shreds as she 
walked up and down, and them pressed it into hard 
balls in her hand. 

“And Anthony,” she thought, “he can do this with¬ 
out caring for what I feel. 0, he can forget every¬ 
thing: how he used to say he loved me—how he used 
to take my hand in his as we walked—how he used 


86 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


to stand near me in the evenings for the sake of 
looking into my eyes.” 

“Oh, it is cruel, it is cruel!” she burst out again 
aloud, as all those love-moments in the past returned 
upon her. Then the tears gushed forth, she threw 
herself on her knees by the bed, and sobbed bitterly. 

She did not know how long she had been there, till 
she was startled by the prayer-bell; when, thinking 
Lady Cheverel might perhaps send some one to in¬ 
quire after her, she rose, and began hastily to un¬ 
dress, that there might be no possibility of her going 
down again. She had hardly unfastened her haii, 
and thrown a loose gown about her, before there was 
a knock at the door, and Mrs. Sharp’s voice said— 
“Miss Tina, my lady wants to know if you’re ill.” 

Caterina opened the door and said, “Thank you, 
dear Mrs. Sharp; I have a bad headache; please tell 
my lady I felt it come on after singing.” 

“Then, goodness me! why aren’t you in bed instid 
o’ standing shivering there, fit to catch your death? 
Come, let me fasten up your hair and tuck you up 
warm.” 

“0 no, thank you; I shall really be in bed very 
soon. Goodnight, dear Sharpy; don’t scold; I will 
be good, and get into bed.” 

Caterina kissed her old friend coaxingly, but Mrs. 
Sharp was not to be “come over” 10 in that way, and 
insisted on seeing her former charge in bed, taking 
away the candle which the poor child had wanted to 
keep as a companion. 

But it was impossible to lie there long with that 
beating heart; and the little white figure was soon 
out of bed again, seeking relief in the very sense 
■of chill and uncomfort. It was light enough for her 
to see about her room, for the moon, nearly at full, 


10 Deceived, fooled. English provincialism. 



Mr. Gilfii/s Love Story 


87 


was riding high in the heavens among scattered 
hurrying clouds. Caterina drew aside the window- 
curtain; and, sitting with her forehead pressed 
against the cold pane, looked out on the wide stretch 
of park and lawn. 

How dreary the moonlight is! robbed of all its ten¬ 
derness and repose by the hard driving wind. The 
trees are harassed by the tossing motion, when 
they would like to be at rest; the shivering grass 
makes her quake with sympathetic cold; and the wil¬ 
lows by the pool, bent low and white under that in¬ 
visible harshness, seem agitated and helpless like 
herself. But she loves the scene the better for its 
sadness: there is some pity in it. It is not like that 
hard unfeeling happiness of lovers, flaunting in the 
eyes of misery. 

She set her teeth tight against the window-frame, 
and the tears fell thick and fast. She was so thank¬ 
ful she could cry, for the mad passion she had felt 
when her eyes were dry frightened her. If that 
dreadful feeling werei to come on when Lady Chev- 
erel was present, she should never be able to con¬ 
tain herself. 

Then there was Sir Christopher—so good to her 
—so happy about Anthony’s marriage; and all the 
while she had these wicked feelings. 

“0, I cannot help it, I cannot help it!” she said 
in a loud whisper between her sobs. “0 God, have 
pity upon me!” 

In this way Tina wore out the long hours of the 
windy moonlight, till at last, with weary aching 
limbs, she lay down in bed again, aftd slept from 
mere exhaustion. 

While this poor little heart was being bruised 
with a weight too heavy for it, nature was holding 
on her calm inexorable way, in unmoved and terrible 


88 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


beauty. The stars were rushing in their eternal 
courses; the tides swelled to the level of the last 
expectant weed; the sun was making brilliant day to 
busy nations on the other side of the swift earth. 
The stream of human thought and deed was hurry¬ 
ing and broadening onward. The astronomer was 
at his telescope; the great ships were labouring over 
the waves; the toiling eagerness of commerce, the 
fierce spirit of revolution, were only ebbing in brief 
rest; and sleepless statesmen were dreading the pos¬ 
sible crisis of the morrow. What were our little 
Tina and her trouble in this mighty torrent, rushing 
from one awful unknown to another? Lighter than 
the smallest centre of quivering life in the water- 
drop, hidden and uncared for as the pulse of an¬ 
guish in the breast of the tiniest bird that has flut¬ 
tered down to its nest with the long-sought food, and 
has found the nest torn and empty. 


CHAPTER VI 


The next morning, when Caterina was waked from 
her heavy sleep by Martha bringing in the warm 
water, the sun was shining, the wind had abated, 
and those hours of suffering in the night seemed 
unreal and dreamlike, in spite of weary limbs and 
aching eyes. She got up and began to dress with a 
strange feeling of insensibility, as if nothing could 
make her cry again; and she even felt a sort of 
longing to be down stairs in the midst of company, 
that she might get rid of this benumbed condition by 
contact. 

There are few of us that are not rather ashamed 
of our sins and follies as we look out on the blessed 
morning sunlight, which comes to us like a bright¬ 
winged angel beckoning us to quit the old path of 
vanity that stretches its dreary length behind us; 
and Tina, little as she knew about doctrines and 
theories, seemed to herself to have been both foolish 
and wicked yesterday. To-day she would try to 
be good; and when she knelt down to say her short 
prayer—the very form she had learned by heart 
when she was ten years old—she added, “0 God, help 
me to bear it!” 

That day the prayer seemed to be answered, for 
after some remarks on her pale looks at breakfast, 
Caterina passed the morning quietly, Miss Assher 
and Captain Wybrow being out on a riding excursion. 
In the evening there was a dinner-party, and after 
Caterina had sung a little, Lady Cheverel, remem¬ 
bering that she was ailing, sent her to bed, where 
she soon sank into a deep sleep. Body and mind must 
renew their force to suffer as well as to enjoy. 

On the morrow, however, it was rainy, and every 
one must stay in-doors; so it was resolved that the 
[89] 


90 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


guests should be taken over the house by Sir Chris¬ 
topher, to hear the story of the architectural alter¬ 
ations, the family portraits, and the family relics. 
All the party, except Mr. Gilfil, were in the drawing¬ 
room when the proposition was made; and when 
Miss Assher rose to go, she looked towards Captain 
Wybrow, expecting to see him rise too ; but he kept 
his seat near the fire, turning his eyes towards the 
newspaper which he had been holding unread in his 
hand. 

“Are you not coming, Anthony?” said Lady Chev- 
erel, noticing Miss Assher’s look of expectation. 

“I think not, if you’ll excuse me,” he answered, 
rising and opening the door; “I feel a little chilled 
this morning, and I am afraid of the cold rooms and 
draughts.” 

Miss Assher reddened, but said nothing, and 
passed on, Lady Cheverel accompanying her. 

Caterina was seated at work in the oriel window. 
It was the first time she and Anthony had been 
alone together, and she had thought before that he 
wished to avoid her. But now, surely, he wanted 
to speak to her—he wanted to say something kind. 
Presently he rose from his seat near the fire, and 
placed himself on the ottoman opposite to her. 

“Well, Tina, and how have you been all this long 
time?” 

Both the tone and the words were an offense to 
her; the tone was so different from the old one, the 
words were so cold and unmeaning. She answered, 
with a little bitterness,— 

“I think you needn’t ask. It doesn’t make much 
difference to you.” 

“Is that the kindest thing you have to say to me 
after my long absence?” 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


91 


“I don’t know why you should expect me to say! 
kind things.” 

Captain Wybrow was silent. He wished very much 
to avoid allusions to the past or comments on the 
present. And yet he wished to be well with Cater- 
ina. He would have liked to caress her, make her 
presents, and have her think him very kind to her. 
But these women are plaguy perverse! There’s no 
bringing them to look rationally at anything. At 
last he said, “I hoped you would think all the better 
of me, Tina, for doing as I have done, instead of 
bearing malice towards me. I hoped you would see 
that it is the best thing for every one—the best for 
your happiness too.” 

“0 pray don’t make love to Miss Assher for the 
sake of my happiness,” answered Tina. 

At this moment the door opened, and Miss Assher 
entered, to fetch her reticule, which lay on the harp¬ 
sichord. She gave a keen glance at Caterina, whose 
face was flushed, and saying to Captain Wybrow 
with a slight sneer, “Since you are so chill I wonder 
you like to sit in the window,” left the room again 
immediately. 

The lover did not appear much discomposed, but 
sat quiet a little longer, and then, seating himself 
on the music-stool, drew it near to Caterina, and, 
taking her hand, said, “Come, Tina, look kindly at 
me, and let us be friends. I shall always be your 
friend.” 

“Thank you,” said Caterina, drawing away her 
hand. “You are very generous. But pray move 
away. Miss Assher may come in again.” 

“Miss Assher be hanged!” said Anthony, feeling 
the fascination of old habit returning on him in his 
proximity to Caterina. He put his arm round her 
waist, and leaned his cheek down to hers. The lips 


92 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


couldn’t help meeting after that; but the next mo¬ 
ment, with heart swelling and tears rising, Caterina 
burst away from him and rushed out of the room 



CHAPTER VII 


Caterina tore herself from Anthony with the des¬ 
perate effort of one who has just self-recollection 
enough left to be conscious that the fumes of char¬ 
coal 1 will master his senses unless he bursts a way 
for himself to the fresh air; but when she reached 
her own room, she was still too intoxicated with that 
momentary revival of old emotions, too much agi¬ 
tated by the sudden return of tenderness in her 
lover, to know whether pain or pleasure predomi¬ 
nated. It was as if a miracle had happened in her 
little world of feeling, and made the future all vague 
—a dim morning haze of possibilities, instead of the 
sombre wintry daylight and clear rigid outline of 
painful certainty. 

She felt the need of rapid movement. She must 
walk out in spite of the rain. Happily, there was 
a thin place in the curtain of clouds which seemed 
to promise that now, about noon, the day had a mind 
to clear up. Caterina thought to herself, “I will 
walk to the Mosslands, and carry Mr. Bates the com¬ 
forter I have made for him, and then Lady Cheverel 
will not wonder so much at my going out.” At the 
hall door she found Rupert, the old bloodhound, sta¬ 
tioned on the mat, with the determination that the 
first person who was sensible enough to take a walk 
that morning should have the honour of his appro¬ 
bation and society. As he thrust his great black and 
tawny head under her hand, and wagged his tail 
with vigorous eloquence, and reached the climax of 
his welcome by jumping up to lick her face, which 
was at a convenient licking height for him, Caterina 
felt quite grateful to the old dog for his friend- 

1 Carbon monoxide gas, caused by incomplete combustion 
in burning wood in order to make charcoal. 

[ 93 ] 



94 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


liness. Animals are such agreeable friends—they 
ask no questions, they pass no criticisms. 

The “Mosslands” was a remote part of the 
grounds, encircled by the little stream issuing from 
the pool; and certainly, for a wet day, Caterina 
could hardly have chosen a less suitable walk, for 
though the rain was abating, and presently ceased 
altogether, there was still a smart shower falling 
from the trees which arched over the greater part 
of her way. But she found just the desired relief from 
her feverish excitement in labouring along the wet 
paths with an umbrella that made her arm ache. 
This amount of exertion was to her tiny body what 
a day’s hunting often was to Mr. Gilfil, who at times 
had his fits of jealousy and sadness to get rid of, 
and wisely had recourse to nature’s innocent opium 
—fatigue. 

When Caterina reached the pretty arched wooden 
bridge which formed the only entrance to the Moss- 
lands for any but webbed feet, the sun had mas¬ 
tered the clouds, and was shining through the 
boughs of the tall elms that made a deep nest for 
the gardener’s cottage—turning the raindrops into 
diamonds, and inviting the nasturtium flowers creep¬ 
ing over the porch and low-thatched roof to lift up 
their flame-coloured heads once more. The rooks 
were cawing with many-voiced monotony, appar¬ 
ently—by a remarkable approximation to human in¬ 
telligence—finding great conversational resources in 
the change of weather. The mossy turf, studded 
with the broad blades of marsh-loving plants, told 
that Mr. Bates’s nest was rather damp in the best 
of weather; but he was of opinion that a little ex¬ 
ternal moisture would hurt no man who was not per¬ 
versely neglectful of that obvious and providential 
antidote, rum-and-water. 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


95 


Caterina loved this nest. Every object in it, every 
sound that haunted it, had been familiar to her from 
the days when she had been carried thither on Mr. 
Bates’s arm, making little cawing noises to imitate, 
the rooks, clapping her hands at the green frogs 
leaping in the moist grass, and fixing grave eyes on 
the gardener’s fowls cluck-clucking under their pens. 
And now the spot looked prettier to her than ever; 
it was so out of the way of Miss Assher, with her 
brilliant beauty, and personal claims, and small civil 
remarks. She thought Mr. Bates would not be come 
in to his dinner yet, so she would sit down and wait 
for him. 

But she was mistaken. Mr. Bates was seated in 
his arm-chair, with his pocket-handkerchief thrown 
over his face, as the most eligible mode of passing 
away those superfluous hours between meals when 
the weather drives a man in-doors. Roused by the 
furious barking of his chained bulldog, he descried 
his little favourite approaching, and forthwith pre¬ 
sented himself at the doorway, looking dispropor¬ 
tionately tall compared with the height of his cot¬ 
tage. The bulldog, meanwhile, unbent from the se¬ 
verity of his official demeanour, and commenced a 
friendly interchange of ideas with Rupert. 

Mr. Bates’s hair was now grey, but his frame was 
none the less stalwart, and his face looked all the 
redder, making an artistic contrast with the deep 
blue of his cotton neckerchief, and of his linen apron 
twisted into a girdle round his waist. 

“Why„ dang my boottons, Miss Tiny,” he exclaimed, 
“hoo coom ye to coom oot dabblin’ your faet laike a 
little Muscovy 2 duck, sich a day as this? Not but 
what ai’m delaighted to sea ye. Here Hester,” he 
called to his old humpbacked house-keeper, “tek the 


2 A large, tropical American duck. 



96 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


young ledy’s oombrella an’ spread it oot to dray. 
Coom, coom in, Miss Tiny, an’ set ye doon by the 
faire an’ dray yer faet, an’ hev summat warm to 
kape ye from ketchin’ coold.” 

Mr. Bates led the way, stooping under the door- 
places, into his small sitting-room, and, shaking the 
patch-work cushion in his arm-chair, moved it to 
within a good roasting distance of the blazing fire. 

“Thank you, uncle Bates” (Caterina kept up her 
childish epithets for her friends, and this was one 
of them.) ; “not quite so close to the fire, for I am 
warm with walking.” 

“Eh, but yer shoes are faine an’ wet, an’ ye must 
put up yer faet .on the finder. Rare big faet, bain’t 
’em?—aboot the saize of a good big spoon. I woon- 
der ye can mek a shift to stan’ on ’em. Now, what’ll 
ye hev to warm yer insaide?—a drop o’ hot elder 
wain, now?” 

“iNo, not anything to drink, thank you; it isn’t 
very long since breakfast,” said Caterina, drawing 
out the comforter from her deep pocket. Pockets 
were capacious in those days. “Look here, uncle 
Bates, here is what I came to bring you. I made it 
on purpose for you. You must wear it this winter, 
and give your red one to old Brooks.” 

“Eh, Miss Tiny, this is a beauty. An’ ye made it 
all wi’ yer little fingers for an old feller laike mae! 
I tek it very kaind on ye, an’ I belave ye I’ll wear it, 
and be prood on’t too. These sthraipes, blue an’ 
whaite, now, they mek it uncommon pritty.” 

“Yes, that will suit your complexion, you know, 
better than the old scarlet one. I know Mrs. Sharp 
will be more in love with you than ever when she 
sees you in the new one.” 

“My complexion, ye little roogue! ye’re a laughin’ 
at me. But talkin’ o’complexions, what a beautiful 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


97 


cooler the bride as is to be hes on her cheeks! Dang 
my boottons! she looks faine an’ handsome o’ hoss- 
back—sits as upraight as a dart, wi’ a figure like a 
statty! Misthress Sharp has promised to put me 
behaind one o’ the doors when the ladies are cornin’ 
doon to dinner, so as I may sae the young un i’ full 
dress, wi’ all her curls an’ that. Misthress Sharp 
says she’s a’most beautifuller nor my ledy was when 
she was yoong; an’ I think ye’ll noot faind many 
i’ the counthry as’ll coom up to that,” 

“Yes, Miss Assher is very handsome,” said Ca- 
terina, rather faintly, feeling the sense of her own 
insignificance returning at this picture of the im¬ 
pression Miss Assher made on others. 

“Well, an’ I hope she’s good too, an’ll mek a good 
naice to Sir Cristhifer an’ my ledy. Misthress Grif¬ 
fin, the maid, says as she’s rether tatchy and find- 
fautin’ aboot her cloothes, laike. But she’s yoong 
—she’s yoong; that’ll wear off when she’s got a 
hoosband, an’ children, an’ summat else to think on. 
Sir Cristhifer’s fain an’ delaighted, I can see. He 
says to me th’ other mornin’, says he, Well, Bates, 
what do you think of your young misthress as is to 
be?’ An’ I says, Whay, yer honour, I think she’s as 
fain a lass as iver I set eyes on; an’ I wish the Cap¬ 
tain luck in a fain family, an’ your honour laife an’ 
health to see’t.’ Mr. Warren says as the masther’s 
all for forrardin’ the weddin’, an’ it’ll very laike be 
afore the autumn’s oot.” 

As Mr. Bates ran on, Caterina felt something like 
a painful contraction at her heart. “Yes,” she said, 
rising, “I dare say it will. Sir Christopher is very 
anxious for it. But I must go, uncle Bates; Lady 
Cheverel will be wanting me, and it is your dinner¬ 
time.” 

“Nay, my dinner doont sinnify a bit; but I moosn’t 


98 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


kaep ye if my ledy wants ye. Though I hevn’t 
thanked ye half anoof for the comfiter—the wrap- 
raskil, 3 as they call’t. My feckins, 4 it’s a beauty. But 
ye look very whaite and sadly, Miss Tiny; I doubt 
ye’re poorly; an’ this walking i’ th’ wet isn’t good for 
ye.” 

“0 yes, it is indeed,” said Caterina, hastening out, 
and taking up her umbrella from the kitchen floor. 
“I must really go now; so good-bye.” 

She tripped off, calling Rupert, while the good 
gardener, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, stood 
looking after her and shaking his head with rather a 
melancholy air. 

“She gets moor nesh and dillicat than iver,” he 
said, half to himself and half to Hester. “I shouldn’t 
woonder if she fades away laike them cyclamens 5 
as I transplanted. She puts me 1’ maind on ’em 
somehow!, hangin’ on (their little thin stalks, so 
whait an’ tinder.” 

The poor little thing made her way back, no long¬ 
er hungering for the cold moist air as a counterac¬ 
tive of inward excitement, but with a chill at her 
heart which made the outward chill only depressing. 
The golden sunlight beamed through the dripping 
boughs like a Shechinah, 6 or visible divine presence, 
and the birds were chirping and trilling their new 

3 A humorous term. A loose great-coat, of coarse ma¬ 
terial, worn in the eighteenth century. 

4 “By my faith”; an exclamatory phrase of astonishment, 
formed from fay, with the suffix kin is). 

B A flower of the same family as the cowslip; native of 
southern Europe and west Asia; a favorite green-house 
plant. 

fi The Jewish name for the symbol of the divine presence, 
which rested in the shape of a cloud or visible light over 
the mercy seat. Spelled also “Shekinak,” that which 
dwells or resides. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


99 


autumnal songs so sweetly, it seemed as if their 
throats, as well as the air, were all the clearer for 
the rain; but Caterina moved through all this joy 
and beauty like a poor wounded leveret painfully 
dragging its little body through the sweet clover- 
tufts—for it, sweet in vain. Mr. Bates’s words about 
Sir Christopher’s joy, Miss Assher’s beauty, and the 
nearness of the wedding, had come upon her like the 
pressure of a cold hand, rousing her from confused 
dozing to a perception of hard, familiar realities. It 
is so with emotional natures, whose thoughts are no 
more than the fleeting shadows cast by feeling: to 
them words are facts, and, even when known to be 
false, have a mastery over their smiles and tears. 
Caterina entered her own room again, with no other 
change from her former state of despondency and 
wretchedness than an additional sense of injury 
from Anthony. His behaviour towards her in the 
morning was a new wrong. To snatch a caress 
when she justly claimed an expression of penitence, 
of regret, of sympathy, was to make more light of 
her than ever. 


CHAPTER VIII 


That evening Miss Assher seemed to carry her¬ 
self with unusual haughtiness, and was coldly ob¬ 
servant of Caterina. There was unmistakably 
thunder in the air. Captain Wybrow appeared to 
take matters very easily, and wasi inclined to brave 
it out by paying more than ordinary attention to 
Caterina. Mr. Gilfil had induced her to play a game 
at draughts 1 with him, Lady Assher being seated at 
picquet with Sir Christopher, and Miss Assher in 
determined conversation with Lady Cheverel. An¬ 
thony, thus left as an odd unit, sauntered up to 
Caterina’s chair, and leaning behind her, watched 
the game. Tina, with all the remembrances of the 
morning thick upon her, felt her cheeks becoming 
more and more crimson, and at last said impatient¬ 
ly, “I wish you would go away.” 

This happened directly under the view of Miss 
Assher, who saw Caterina’s reddening cheeks, saw 
that she said something impatiently, and that Cap¬ 
tain Wybrow moved away in consequence. There 
was another person, too, who had noticed this inci¬ 
dent with strong interest, and who was moreover 
aware that Miss Assher not only saw, but keenly ob¬ 
served what was passing. That other person was 
Mr. Gilfil, and he drew some painful conclusions 
which heightened his anxiety for Caterina. 

The next morning, in spite of the fine weather, 
Miss Assher declined riding, and Lady Cheverel, 
perceiving that there was something wrong between 
the lovers, took care that they should be left to¬ 
gether in the drawing-room. Miss Assher, seated 
on the sofa near the fire, was busy with some fancy- 

ir riie game of checkers; draughts, literally moves , refers 
to the manner of playing. 

[100] , 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


101 


work, in which she seemed bent on making great 
progress this morning. Captain Wybrow sat op¬ 
posite with a newspaper in his hand, from which 
he obligingly read extracts with an elaborately easy 
air, willfully unconscious of the contemptuous si¬ 
lence with which she pursued her filigree work. At 
length he put down the paper, which he could no 
longer pretend not to have exhausted, and Miss 
Assher then said,— 

“You seem to be on very intimate terms with Miss 
Sarti.” 

“With Tina? oh yes; she has always been the pet 
of the house, you know. We have been quite brother 
and sister together.” 

“Sisters don’t generally colour so very deeply when 
their brothers approach them.” 

“Does she colour? I never noticed it. But she’s 
a timid little thing.” 

“It would be much better if you would not be so 
hypocritical, Captain Wybrow. I am confident there 
has been some flirtation between you. Miss Sarti, 
in her position, would never speak to you with the 
petulance she did last night, if you had not given 
her some kind of claim on you.” 

“My dear Beatrice, now do be reasonable; do ask 
yourself what earthly probability there is that I 
should think of flirting with poor little Tina. Is 
there anything about her to attract that sort of at¬ 
tention? She is more child than woman. One 
thinks of her as a little girl to be petted and played 
with.” 

“Pray, what were you playing at with her yester¬ 
day morning, when I came in unexpectedly, and her 
cheeks were flushed, and her hands trembling?” 

“Yesterday morning?—0, I remember. You know 
I always tease her about Gilfil, who is over head 


102 


Mr. Gilfii/s Love Story 


and ears in love with her; and she is angry at that, 
—perhaps, because she likes him. They were old 
playfellows years before I came here, and Sir Chris¬ 
topher has set his heart on their marrying.” 

“Captain Wybrow, you are very false. It had 
nothing to do with Mr. Gilfil that she coloured last 
night when you leaned over her chair. You might 
just as well be candid. If your own mind is not made 
up, pray do no violence to yourself. I am quite 
ready to give way to Miss Sarti’s superior attrac¬ 
tions. Understand that, so far as I am concerned, 
you are perfectly at liberty. I decline any share 
in the affection of a man who forfeits my respect by 
duplicity.” 

In saying this Miss Assher rose, and was sweep¬ 
ing haughtily out of the room, when Captain Wybrow 
placed himself before her, and took her hand. 

“Dear, dear Beatrice, be patient; do not judge me 
so rashly. [Sit down again, sweet,” he added in a 
pleading voice, pressing both her hands between 
his, and leading her back to the sofa, where he sat 
down beside her. Miss Assher was not unwilling 
to be led back or to listen', but she retained her cold 
and haughty expression. 

“Can you not trust me, Beatrice? Can you not 
believe me, although there may be things I am un¬ 
able to explain?” 

“Why should there be anything you are unable 
to explain? An 1 honourable man will not be placed 
in circumstances which he cannot explain to the 
woman he seeks to make his wife. He will not ask 
her to believe that he acts properly; he will let her 
know that he does so. Let me go, sir.” 

She attempted to rise, but he passed his hand 
round her waist and detained her. 

“Now, Beatrice dear,” he said imploringly, “can 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


103 


you not understand that there are things a man 
doesn’t like to talk about—secrets that he must 
keep for the sake of others, and not for his own 
sake ? Everything that relates to myself you may ask 
me, but do not ask me to tell other people’s secrets. 
Don’t you understand me?” 

“0 yes,” said Miss Assher scornfully, “I under¬ 
stand. When ever you make love to a woman— 
that is her secret, which you are bound to keep for 
her. But it is folly to be talking in this way, Cap¬ 
tain Wybrow. It is very plain that there is some 
relation more than friendship between you and Miss 
Sarti. Since you cannot explain that relation, there 
is no more to be said between us.” 

“Confound it, Beatrice! you’ll drive me mad. 
Can a fellow help a girl’s falling in love with him? 
Such things are always happening, but men don’t 
talk of them. These fancies will spring up without 
the slightest foundation, especially when a woman 
sees few people; they die out again when there is 
no encouragement. If you could like me, you ought 
not to be surprised that other people can; you ought 
to think the better of them for it.” 

“You mean to say, then, that Miss Sarti is in love 
with you, without your ever having made love to 
her.” 

“Do not press me to say such things, dearest. It 
is enough that you know I love you—that I am de¬ 
voted to you. You naughty queen you, you know 
there is no chance for any one else where you are. 
You are only tormenting me, to prove your power 
over me. But don’t be too cruel; for you know they 
say I have another heart-disease besides love, and 
these scenes bring on terrible palpitations.” 

“But I must have an answer to this one question,” 
said Miss Assher, a little softened: “Has there been, 


104 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


or is there, any love on your side towards Miss Sarti ? 
I have nothing to do with her feeling, but I have a 
right to know yours.” 

“I like Tina very much; who would not like such 
a little simple thing? You would not wish me not 
to like her? But love—that is a very different affair. 
One has a brotherly affection for such a woman as 
Tina; but it is another sort of woman that one 
loves.” 

These last words were made doubly significant by 
a look of tenderness, and a kiss imprinted on the 
hand Captain Wybrow held in his. Miss Assher 
was conquered. It was so far from probable that 
Anthony should love that pale insignificant little 
thing—so highly probable that he should adore the 
beautiful Miss Assher. On the whole, it was rather 
gratifying that other women should be languishing 
for her handsome lover; he really was an exquisite 
creature. Poor Miss Sarti! Well, she would get 
over it. 

Captain Wybrow saw his advantage. ‘‘Come, 
s'weet love,” he continued, “let us talk no more about 
unpleasant things. You will keep Tina’s secret, and 
be very kind to her—won’t you?—for my sake. But 
you will ride out now? See what a glorious day it 
is for riding. Let me order the horses. I’m terribly 
in want of the air. Come, give me one forgiving 
kiss, and say you will go.” 

Miss Assher complied with the double request, 
and then went to equip herself for the ride, while 
her lover walked to the stables. 


CHAPTER IX 


Meanwhile Mr. Gilfil, who had a heavy weight on 
his mind, had watched for the moment when, the 
two elder ladies having driven out, Caterina would 
probably be alone in Lady CheverePs sitting-room. 
He went up and knocked at the door. 

‘‘Come in,” said the sweet mellow voice, always 
thrilling to him as the sound of rippling water to 
the thirsty. 

He entered and found Caterina standing in some 
confusion, as if she had been startled from a rev¬ 
erie. She felt relieved when she saw it was May¬ 
nard, but, the next moment, felt a little pettish that 
he should have come to interrupt and frighten her. 

“Oh, it is you, Maynard! Do you want Lady Chev- 
erel?” 

“JN lo, Caterina,” he answered gravely; “I want 
you. I have something very particular to say to 
you. Will you let me sit down with you for half 
an hour?” 

“Yes, dear old preacher,” said Caterina, sitting 
down with an air of weariness; “what is it?” 

Mr. Gilfil placed himself opposite her, and said, 
“I hope you will not be hurt, Caterina, by what I 
am going to say to you. I do not speak from any 
other feeling than real affection and anxiety for 
you. I put everything else out of the question. You 
know you are more to me than all the world; but 
I will not thrust before you a feeling which you are 
unable to return. I speak to you as a brother—the 
old Maynard that used to scold you for getting your 
fishing-line tangled ten years ago. You will not 
believe that I have any mean, selfish motive in men¬ 
tioning things that are painful to you?” 

[105] 


106 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


“No; I know you are very good,” said Caterina 
abstractedly. 

“From what I saw yesterday evening,” Mr. Gilfil 
went on, hesitating and colouring slightly, “I am 
led to fear—pray forgive me if I am wrong, Cater¬ 
ina—that you—that Captain Wybrow is base enough 
still to trifle with your feelings, that he still allows 
himself to behave to you as no man ought who is 
the declared lover of another woman.” 

“What do you mean, Maynard?” said Caterina, 
with anger flashing from her eyes. “Do you mean 
that I let him make love to me? What right have 
you to think that of me? What do you mean that 
you saw yesterday evening?” 

“Do not be angry, Caterina. I don’t suspect you 
of doing wrong. I only suspect that heartless pup¬ 
py of behaving so as to keep awake feelings in you 
that not only destroy your own peace of mind, but 
may lead to very bad consequences with regard to 
others. I want to warn you that Miss Assher has 
her eyes open on what passes between you and Cap¬ 
tain Wybrow, and I feel sure she is getting jealous 
of you. Pray be very careful, Caterina, and try to 
behave with politeness and indifference to him. You 
must see by this time that he is not worth the feel¬ 
ing you have given him. He’s more disturbed at 
his pulse beating one too many in a minute, than at 
all the misery he has caused you by his foolish 
trifling.” 

“You ought not to speak so of him, Maynard,” said 
Caterina, passionately. “He is not what you think. 
He did care for me; he did love me; only he wanted 
to do what his uncle wished.” 

“0 to be sure! I know it is only from the most 
virtuous motives that he does what is convenient 
to himself.” 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


107 


Mr. Gilfil paused. He felt that he was getting 
irritated, and defeating his own object. Presently 
he continued in a calm and affectionate tone. 

“I will say no more about what I think of him, 
Caterina. But whether he loved you or not, his 
position now with Miss Assher is such that any 
love you may cherish for him can bring nothing but 
misery. God knows, I don’t expect you to leave off 
loving him at a moment’s notice. Time and absence, 
and trying to do what is right, are the only cures. 
If it were not that Sir Christopher and Lady Chev- 
erel would be displeased and puzzled at your wish¬ 
ing to leave home just now, I would beg you to pay 
a visit to my sister. She and her husband are good 
creatures, and would make their house a home to 
you. But I could not urge the thing just now with¬ 
out giving a special reason; and what is most of all 
to be dreaded is the raising of any suspicion in Sir 
Christopher’s mind of what has happened in the 
past, or of your present feelings. You think so too, 
don’t you, Tina?” 

Mr. Gilfil paused again, but Caterina said nothing. 
She was looking away from him, out of the window, 
and her eyes were filling with tears. He rose, and, 
advancing a little towards her, held out his hand 
and said,— 

“Forgive me, Caterina, for intruding on your feel¬ 
ings in this way. I was so afraid you might not be 
aware how Miss Assher watched you. Remember, 
I entreat you, that the peace of the whole family 
depends on your power of governing yourself. Only 
say you forgive me before I go.” 

“Dear, good Maynard,” she said, stretching out 
her little hand, and taking two of his large fingers 
in her grasp, while her tears flowed fast; “I am very 


108 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


cross to you. But my heart is breaking. I don’t 
know what I do. Good-bye.” 

He stooped down, kissed the little hand, and then 
left the room. 

“The cursed scoundrel!” he muttered between his 
teeth, as he closed the door behind him. “If it were 
not for Sir Christopher, I should like to pound him 
into paste to poison puppies like himself!” 


CHAPTER X 


That evening Captain Wybrow returned from a 
long ride with Miss Assher, went up to his dress¬ 
ing-room, and seated himself with an air of consid¬ 
erable lassitude before his mirror. The reflection 
there presented uf his exquisite self was certainly 
paler and more worn than usual, and might excuse 
the anxiety with which he first felt his pulse, and 
then laid his hand on his heart. 

“It’s a devil of a position this for a man to be in,” 
was the train of his thought, as he kept his eyes 
fixed on the glass, while he leaned back in his chair, 
and crossed his hands behind his head; “between two 
jealous women, and both of them as ready to take 
fire as tinder. And in my state of health too! I 
should be glad enough to run away from the whole 
affair, and go off to some lotos-eating place or other 
where there are no women, or only women who are 
too sleepy to be jealous. Here am I, doing nothing 
to please myself, trying to do the best thing for ev¬ 
erybody else, and all the comfort I get is to have fire 
shot at me from women’s eyes, and venom spirted 
at me from women’s tongues. If Beatrice takes an¬ 
other jealous fit into her head—and it’s likely 
enough, Tina is so unmanageable—T don’t know 
what storm she may raise. And any hitch in this 
marriage, especially of that sort, might be a fatal 
business for the old gentleman. I wouldn’t have 
such a blow fall upon him for a great deal. Be¬ 
sides, a man must be married some time in his life, 
and I could hardly do better than marry Beatrice. 
She’s an uncommonly fine woman, and I’m really 
very fond of her; and as I shall let her have her 
own way. her temper won’t signify much. I wish 
the wedding was over and. done with, for this fuss 
[ 109 ] 


110 


Mp. Gilfil’s Love story 


doesn’t suit me at all. I haven’t been half so well 
lately. That scene about Tina this morning quite 
upset me. Poor little Tina! What a little simple¬ 
ton it was, to set her heart on me in that way! But 
she ought to see how impossible it is that things 
should be different. If she would but understand 
how kindly I feel towards her, and make up her 
mind to look on me as a friend;—but that is what 
one never can get a woman to do. Beatrice is very 
good-natured; I’m sure she would be kind to the 
little thing. It would be a great comfort if Tina 
would take to Gilfil, if it were only in anger against 
me. He’d make her a capital husband, and I should 
like to see the little grasshopper happy. If I had 
been in a different position, I would certainly have 
married her myself; but that was out of the ques¬ 
tion with my responsibilities to Sir Christopher. I 
think a little persuasion from my uncle would bring 
her to accept Gilfil; I know she would never be able 
to oppose my uncle’s wishes. And if they were once 
married, she’s such a loving little thing, she would 
soon be billing and cooing with him as if she had 
never known me. It would certainly be the best 
thing for her happiness if that marriage were hast¬ 
ened. Heigho! Those are lucky fellows that have 
no women falling in love with them. It’s a con¬ 
founded responsibility.” 

At this point in his meditations he turned his 
head a little, so as to get a three-quarter view of his 
face. Clearly it was the “dono infelice della 
belezza” 1 that laid these onerous duties upon him— 
an idea which naturally suggested that he should 
ring for his valet. 

For the next few days, however, there was such 


3 “The unhappy gift of beauty.’' The quotation is from 
the second line of a sonnet by Vincenzo da Filicaja, 1642- 



Mr. Gilfil's Love Story 


111 


a cessation of threatening symptoms as to allay the 
anxiety both of Captain Wybrow and Mr. Gilfil. All 
earthly things have their lull: even on nights when 
the most unappeasable wind is raging, there will be 
a moment of stillness before it crashes among the 
boughs again, and storms against the windows, and 
howls like a thousand lost demons through the key¬ 
holes. 

Miss Assher appeared to be in the highest good- 
humour; Captain Wybrow was more assiduous than 
usual, and was very circumspect in his behavior to 
Caterina, on whom Miss Assher bestowed unwonted 
attentions. The weather was brilliant; there were 
riding excursions in the morning and dinner-parties 
in the evenings. Consultations in the library be¬ 
tween Sir Christopher and Lady Assher seemed to 
be leading to a satisfactory result; and it was under¬ 
stood that this visit at Cheverel Manor would ter¬ 
minate in another fortnight, when the preparations 
for the wedding would be carried forward with all 
despatch at Farleigh. The Baronet seemed every 
day more radiant. Accustomed to view people who 
entered into his plans by the pleasant light which 
his own strong will and bright hopefulness were al¬ 
ways casting on the future, he saw nothing but per¬ 
sonal charms and promising domestic qualities in 
Miss Assher, whose quickness of eye and taste in 
externals formed a real ground of sympathy between 
her and Sir Christopher. Lady ChevereTs enthusi¬ 
asm never rose above the temperate mark of calm 
satisfaction, and having quite her share of the crit- 
1707, an Italian lawyer and lyric poet especially noted for 
his odes and sonnets. Lord Byron in Childe Harold?s Pil¬ 
grimage, canto iv, stanza 42, with the exception of a line 
or two, translated the Italian: 

“Italia! Oh Italia! thon who hast the fatal gift of 
beauty ...” 



112 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


ical acumen which characterizes the mutual esti¬ 
mates of the fair sex, she had a more moderate opin¬ 
ion of Miss Assher’s qualities. She suspected that 
the fair Beatrice had a sharp and imperious tem¬ 
per; and being herself, on principle and by habitual 
self-command, the most deferential of wives, she 
noticed with disapproval Miss Assher’s occasional 
air of authority towards Captain Wybrow. A proud 
woman who had learned to submit, carries all her 
pride to the reinforcement of her submission, and 
looks down with severe superiority on all feminine 
assumption as “unbecoming.” Lady Cheverel, how¬ 
ever, confined her criticisms to the privacy of her 
own thoughts, and, with a reticence which I fear 
may seem incredible, did not use them as a means 
of disturbing her husband’s complacency. 

And Caterina? How did she pass these sunny 
autumn days, in which the skies seemed to be smil¬ 
ing on the family gladness? To her the change in 
Miss Assher’s manner was unaccountable. Those 
compassionate attentions, those smiling condescen¬ 
sions, were torture to Caterina, who was constantly 
tempted to repulse them with anger. She thought. 
“Perhaps Anthony has told her to be kind to poor 
Tina. This was an insult. He ought to have known 
that the mere presence of Miss Assher was painful 
to her, that Miss Assher’s smiles scorched her, that 
Miss Assher’s kind words were like poison stings in¬ 
flaming her to madness. And he—Anthony—he was 
evidently repenting of the tenderness he had been 
betrayed into that morning in the drawing room. 
He Was cold and distant and civil to her, to ward 
off Beatrice’s suspicions, and Beatrice could be so 
gracious now, because she was sure of Anthony’s 
entire devotion. Well! and so it ought to be—and 
she ought not to wish it otherwise. And yet—oh, 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


113 


he was cruel to her. She could never have behaved 
so to him. To make her love him so—to speak such 
tender words—to give her such caresses, and then 
to behave as if such things had never been. He 
had given her the poison that seemed so sweet while 
she was drinking it, and now it was in her blood, 
and she was helpless.” 

With this tempest pent up in her bosom, the poor 
child went up to her room every night, and there it 
all burst forth. There, with loud whispers and sobs, 
restlessly pacing up and down, lying on the hard 
floor, courting cold and weariness, she told to the 
pitiful listening night the anguish which she could 
pour into no mortal ear. But always sleep came at 
last, and always in the morning the reactive calm 
that enabled her to live through the day. 

It is amazing how long a young frame will go 
on battling with this sort of secret wretchedness, 
and yet show no traces of the conflict for any but 
sympathetic eyes. The very delicacy of Caterina’s 
usual appearance, her natural paleness and habitual¬ 
ly quiet mouse-like ways, made any symptoms of fa¬ 
tigue and suffering less noticeable. And her singing 
—the one thing in which she ceased to be passive, 
and became prominent:—lost none of its energy. 
She sometimes wondered herself how it was that, 
whether she felt sad or angry, crushed with the 
sense of Anthony’s indifference, or burning with im¬ 
patience under Miss Assher’s attentions, it was al¬ 
ways a relief to her to sing. Those full deep notes 
she sent forth seemed to be lifting the pain from 
her heart—seemed to be carrying away the madness 
from her brain. 

Thus Lady Cheverel noticed no change in Cater- 
ina, and it was only Mr. Gilfil who discerned with 
anxiety the feverish spot that sometimes rose on her 


114 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


cheek, the deepening violet tint under her eyes, and 
the strange absent glance, the unhealthy glitter of 
the beautiful eyes themselves. 

But, alas! those agitated nights were producing 
a more fatal effect than was represented by these 
slight outward changes. 


CHAPTER XI 


The following Sunday, the morning being rainy, 
it was determined that the family should not go to 
Cumbermoor Church as usual, but that Mr. Gilfil, 
who had only an afternoon service at his curacy, 
should conduct the morning service in the chapel. 

Just before the appointed hour of eleven, Cater- 
ina came down into the drawing-room, looking so 
unusually ill as to call forth an anxious inquiry from 
Lady Cheverel, who, on learning that she had a se¬ 
vere headache, insisted that she should not attend 
service, and at once packed her up comfortably on 
a sofa near the fire, putting a volume of Tillotson’s 
Sermons 1 into her hands, as appropriate reading, if 
Caterina should feel equal to that means of edifi¬ 
cation. 

Excellent medicine for the mind are the good arch¬ 
bishop’s sermons, but a medicine, unhappily, not 
suited to Tina’s case. She sat with the book open 
on her knees, her dark eyes fixed vacantly on the 
portrait of that handsome Lady Cheverel, wife of 
the notable Sir Anthony. She gazed at the picture 
without thinking of it, and the fair blonde dame 
seemed to look down on her with that benignant un¬ 
concern, that mild wonder, with which happy self- 
possessed women are apt to look down on their agi¬ 
tated and weaker sisters. 

Caterina was thinking of the near future—of the 
wedding that was so soon to come—of all she would 
have to live through in the next months, 

“I wish I could be very ill, and die before then,” 
J John Tillotson, 1630-1694. In 1691 he became Arch¬ 
bishop of Canterbury, the highest office in the English 
Church. His sermons, of a practical rather than theo¬ 
logical nature, rank high among English sermons. 

[115] 



116 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


she thought. “When people get very ill, they don’t 
mind about things. Poor Patty Richards looked so 
happy when she was in a decline. She didn’t seem 
to care any more about her lover that she was en¬ 
gaged to be married to, and she liked the smell of 
the flowers so that I used to take her. 0, if I could 
but like anything—if I could but think about any¬ 
thing else! If these dreadful feelings would go 
away, I wouldn’t mind about not ^eing happy. I 
wouldn’t want anything—and I could do what would 
please |S{ir Christopher and Lady Cheverel. But 
when that rage and anger comes into me, I don’t 
know what to do. I don’t feel the ground under me; 
I only feel my head and heart beating, and it seems 
as if I must do something dreadful. O! I wonder 
if any one ever felt like me before. I must be very 
wicked. But God will have pity on me; He knows 
all I have to bear.” 

In this way the time wore on till Tina heard the 
sound of voices along the passage, and became con¬ 
scious that the volume of Tillotson had slipped on 
the floor. She had only just picked it up, and seen 
with alarm that the pages were bent, when Lady 
Assher, Beatrice, and Captain Wybrow entered, all 
with that brisk and cheerful air which' a sermon is 
often observed to produce when it is quite finished. 

Lady Assher at once came and seated herself by 
Caterina. Her ladyship had been considerably re¬ 
freshed by a doze, and was in great force for mono¬ 
logue. 

“Well, my dear Miss Sarti, and how do you feel 
now?—a little better, I see. I thought you would be, 
sitting quietly here. These headaches, now, are all 
from weakness. You must not over-exert yourself, 
and you must take bitters. I used to have just the 
same sort of headaches when I was your age, and 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


117 


old Dr. Samson used to say to’ my mother, ‘Madam, 
what your daughter suffers from is weakness.’ He 
was such a curious old man, was Dr. Samson. But 
I wish you could have heard the sermon this morn¬ 
ing. Such an excellent sermon! It was about the 
ten virgins: five of them were foolish, and five were 
clever, you know; and Mr. Gilfil explained all that. 
What a very pleasant young man he is!—so very 
quiet and agreeable, and such a good hand at whist. 
I wish we had him at Farleigh. Sir John would 
have liked him beyond anything; he is so good- 
tempered at cards, and he was such a man for cards, 
was Sir John. And our rector is a very irritable 
man; he can’t bear to lose his money at cards. I 
don’t think a clergyman ought to mind about losing 
Ms money; do you?—do you now?” 

“0 pray, Lady Assher,” interposed Beatrice, in 
her usual tone of superiority, “do not weary poor 
Caterina with such uninteresting questions. Your 
head seems very bad still, dear,” she continued, in 
a condoling tone, to Caterina; “do take my vinai¬ 
grette, 2 and keep it in your pocket. It will perhaps 
refresh you now and then.” 

“No, thank you,” answered Caterina; “I will not 
take it away from you.” 

“Indeed, dear, I never use it; you must take it,” 
Miss Assher persisted, holding it close to Tina’s 
hand. She coloured deeply, pushed the vinaigrette 
away with some impatience, and said, “Thank you, 
I never use those things. 1 don’t like vinaigrettes.” 

Miss Assher returned the vinaigrette to her pocket 
in surprised and haughty silence, and Captain Wy- 
brow, who had looked on in some alarm, said has¬ 
tily, “See! it is quite bright out of doors now. There 

2 A small bottle or box used for carrying about the per¬ 
son some drug having a strong and pungent odor. 



118 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


is time for a walk before luncheon. Come, Beatrice, 
put on your hat and cloak, and let us have half an 
hour’s walk on the gravel.” 

“Yes, do, my dear,” said Lady Assher, “and I will 
go and see if Sir Christopher is having his walk in 
the gallery.” 

As soon as the door had closed behind the two 
ladies, Captain Wybrow, standing with his back to 
the fire, turned toward Caterina, and said in a tone 
of earnest remonstrance, “My dear Caterina. let me 
beg of you to exercise more control over your feel¬ 
ings; you are really rude to Miss Assher, and I can 
see that she is quite hurt. Consider how strange 
your behaviour must appear to her. She will wonder 
what can be the cause of it. Come, dear Tina,” he 
added, approaching her, and attempting to take her 
hand; “for your own sake let me entreat you to re¬ 
ceive her attentions politely. She really feels very 
kindly towards you, and I should be so happy to 
see you friends.” 

Caterina was already in such a state of diseased 
susceptibility that the most innocent words from 
Captain Wybrow would have been irritating to her, 
as the whirr of the most delicate wing will afflict 
a nervous patient. But this tone of benevolent re¬ 
monstrance was intolerable. He had inflicted a great 
and unrepented injury on her, and now he assumed 
an air of benevolence towards her. This was a new 
outrage. His profession of goodwill was insolence. 

Caterina snatched away her hand and said indig¬ 
nantly, “Leave me to myself, Captain Wybrow! I 
do not disturb you.” 

“Caterina, why will you be so violent—so unjust 
to me? It is for you that I feel anxious. Miss Assher 
has already noticed how strange your behaviour is 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


119 


both to her and me, and it puts me into a very dif¬ 
ficult position. What can I say to her?” 

“Say?” Caterina burst forth with intense bitter¬ 
ness, rising, and moving towards the door; “say 
that I am a poor silly girL, and have fallen in love 
with you, and am jealous of her; but that you have 
never had any feeling but pity for me—you have 
never behaved with anything more than friendliness 
to me. Tell her that, and she will think all the bet¬ 
ter of you.” 

Tina uttered this as the bitterest sarcasm her 
ideas would furnish her with, not having the faint¬ 
est suspicion that the sarcasm derived any of its 
bitterness from truth. Underneath all her sense of 
wrong, which was rather instinctive than reflective 
—underneath all the madness of her jealousy, and 
her ungovernable impulses of resentment and vin¬ 
dictiveness—underneath all this scorching passion 
there were still left some hidden crystal dews of 
trust, of self-reproof, of belief that Anthony was 
trying to do the right. Love had not all gone to feed 
the fires of hatred. Tina still trusted that Anthony 
felt more for her than he seemed to feel; she was 
still far from suspecting him of a wrong which a 
woman resents even more than inconstancy. And 
she threw out this taunt simply as the most intense 
expression she could find for the anger of the mo¬ 
ment. 

As she stood nearly in the middle of the room, 
her little body trembling under the shock of pas¬ 
sions too strong for it, her very lips pale, and her 
eyes gleaming, the door opened, and Miss Assher 
appeared, tall, blooming, and splendid, in her walk¬ 
ing costume. As she entered her face wore the smile 
appropriate to the exits and entrances of a young 
lady who feels that her presence is an interesting 


120 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


fact; but the next moment she looked at Caterina 
with grave surprise, and then threw a glance of 
angry suspicion at Captain Wybrow, who wore an 
air of weariness and vexation. 

“Perhaps you are too much engaged to walk out. 
Captain Wybrow? I will go alone.’’ 

“No, no, I am coming,” he answered, hurrying 
towards her, and leading her out of the room; leav¬ 
ing poor Caterina to feel all the reaction of shame 
and self-reproach after her outburst of passion. 


CHAPTER XII 


“Pray, what is likely to be the next scene in the 
drama between you and Miss Sarti?” said Miss 
Assher to Captain Wybrow as soon as they were out 
on the gravel. “It would be agreeable to have some 
idea of what is coming.’’ 

Captain Wybrow was silent. He felt out of 
humour, wearied, annoyed. There come moments 
when one almost determines never again to oppose 
anything but dead .silence to an angry woman. “Now 
then, confound it,” he said to himself, “I’m going 
to be battered on the other flank.” He looked res¬ 
olutely at the horizon, with something more like a 
frown on his face than Beatrice had ever seen there. 

After a pause of two or three minutes, she con¬ 
tinued in a still haughtier tone, “I suppose you are 
aware, Captain Wybrow, that I expect an explana¬ 
tion of what I have just seen.” 

“I have no explanation, my dear Beatrice,” he 
answered at last, making a strong elfort over him¬ 
self, “except what I have already given you. I hoped 
you would never recur to the subject.” 

“Your explanation, however, is very far from sat¬ 
isfactory. I can only say that the airs Miss Sarti 
thinks herself entitled to put on towards you, are 
quite incompatible with your position as regards 
me. And her behaviour to me is most insulting. I 
shall certainly not stay in the house under such 
circumstances, and mamma must state the reasons 
to Sir Christopher.” 

“Beatrice,” said Captain Wybrow, his irritation 
giving way to alarm, “I beseech you to be patient, 
and exercise your good feelings in this affair. It is 
very painful, I know, but I am sure you would be 
grieved to injure poor Caterina—to bring down my 
[ 121 ] 


122 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


uncle’s anger upon her. Consider what a poor little 
dependent thing she is.” 

‘‘It is very adroit of you to make these evasions, 
but do not suppose that they deceive me. Miss Sarti 
would never dare to behave to you as she does, if 
you had not flirted with her, or made love to her. 
I suppose she considers your engagement to me a 
breach of faith to her. I am much obliged to you, 
certainly, for making me Miss Sarti’s rival. You 
have told me a falsehood, Captain Wybrow.” 

“Beatrice, I solemnly declare to you that Caterina 
is nothing more to me than a girl I naturally feel 
kindly to—as a favourite of my uncle’s, and a nice 
little thing enough. I should be glad to see her mar¬ 
ried to Gilfil to-morrow; that’s a good proof that 
I’m not in love with her, I should think. As to the 
past, I may have shown her little attentions, which 
she has exaggerated and misinterpreted. What man 
is not liable to that sort of thing?” 

“But what can she found her behaviour on? What 
had she been saying to you this morning to make 
her tremble and turn pale in that way?” 

“0, I don’t know. I just said something about her 
behaving peevishly. With that Italian blood of 
hers, there’s no knowing how she may take what one 
says. She’s a fierce little thing, though she seems 
so quiet generally.” 

“But she ought to be made to know how unbecom¬ 
ing and indelicate her conduct is. For my part, I 
wonder Lady Cheverel has rot noticed her short 
answers and the airs she puts on.” 

“Let me beg of you, Beatrice, not to hint anything 
of the kind to Lady Cheverel. You must have ob¬ 
served how strict my aunt is. It never enters her 
head that a girl can be in love with a man who has 
not made her an offer.” 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


123 


“Well, I shall let Miss Sarti know myself that I 
have observed her conduct. It will be only a charity 
to her.” 

“Nay, dear, that will be doing nothing but harm. 
Caterina’s temper is peculiar. The best thing you 
can do will be to leave her to herself as much as 
possible. It will all wear off. I’ve no doubt she’ll 
be married to Gilfil before long. Girls’ fancies are 
easily diverted from one object to another. By 
Jove, what a rate my heart is galloping at! These 
confounded palpitations get worse instead of bet¬ 
ter.” 

Thus ended the conversation, so far as it con¬ 
cerned Caterina, not without leaving a distinct res¬ 
olution in Captain Wybrow’s mind—a resolution car¬ 
ried into effect the next day, when he was in the 
library with Sir Christopher for the purpose of dis¬ 
cussing some arrangements about the approaching 
marriage. 

“By the by,” he said carelessly, when the business 
came to a pause, and he was sauntering round the 
room with his hands in his coat-pockets, surveying 
the backs of the books that lined the walls, “when 
is the wedding between Gilfil and Caterina to come 
off, sir? I’ve a fellow-feeling for a poor devil so 
many fathoms deep in love as Maynard. Why 
shouldn’t their marriage happen as soon as ours? 
I suppose he has come to an understanding with 
Tina?” 

“Why,” said Sir Christopher, “I did think of letting 
the thing be until old Crichly died; he can’t hold 
out very long, poor fellow; and then Maynard might 
have entered into matrimony and the Rectory both 
at once. But, after all, that really is no good reason 
for waiting. There is no need for them to leave 
the Manor when they are married. The little mon- 


124 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


key is quite old enough. It would be pretty to see 
her a matron, with a baby about the size of a kitten 
in her arms.” 

“I think that system of waiting is always bad. And 
if I can further any settlement you would like to 
make on Caterina, I shall be delighted to carry out 
your wishes.” 

“My dear boy, that’s very good of you; but May¬ 
nard will have enough; and from what I know of 
him—and I know him well—I think he would rather 
provide for Caterina himself. However, now you 
have put this matter into my head, I begin to blame 
myself for not having thought of it before. I’ve 
been so wrapt up in Beatrice and you, you rascal, 
that I had really forgotten poor Maynard. And 
he’s older than you—it’s high time he was settled 
in life as a family man.” 

Sir Christopher paused, took snuff in a meditative 
manner, and presently said, more to himself than to 
Anthony, who was humming a tune at the far end 
of the room, “Yes, yes. It will be a capital plan to 
finish off all our family business at once.” 

Riding out with Miss Assher the same morning, 
Captain Wybrow mentioned to her incidentally, that 
Sir Christopher was anxious to bring about the wed¬ 
ding between Gilfil and Caterina as soon as possible, 
and that he, for his part, should do all he could to 
further the affair. It would be the best thing in 
the world for Tina, in whose welfare he was really 
interested. 

With Sir Christopher there was never any long 
interval between purpose and execution. He made 
up his mind promptly, and he acted promptly. On 
rising from luncheon, he said to Mr. Gilfil, “Come 
with me into the library, Maynard. I want to have 
a word with you,” 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


125 


‘‘Maynard, my boy,” he began, as soon as they 
jvere seated, tapping his snuff-box, and looking ra¬ 
diant at the idea of the unexpected pleasure he 
was about to give, “why shouldn’t we have two 
happy couples instead of one, before the, autumn is 
over, eh?” 

“Eh?” he repeated, after a moment’s pause, 
lengthening out the monosyllable, taking a slow 
pinch, and looking up at Maynard with a sly smile. 

“I’m not quite sure that I understand you, sir,” 
answered Mr. Gilfil, who felt annoyed at the con¬ 
sciousness that he was turning pale. 

“Not understand me, you rogue? You know very 
well whose happiness lies nearest to my heart after 
Anthony’s. You know you let me into your secrets 
long ago, so there’s no confession to make. Tina’s 
quite old enough to be a grave little wife now; and 
though the Rectory’s not ready for you, that’s no 
matter. My lady and I shall feel all the more com¬ 
fortable for having you with us. We should miss 
our little singing-bird if we lost her all at once.” 

Mr. Gilfil felt himself in a painfully difficult po¬ 
sition. He dreaded that Sir Christopher should sur¬ 
mise or discover the true state of Caterina’s feel¬ 
ings, and yet he was obliged to make those feelings 
the ground of his reply. 

“My dear sir,” he at last said with some effort, 
“you will not suppose that I am not alive to your 
goodness—that I am not grateful for your fatherly 
interest" in my happiness; but I fear that Caterina’s 
feelings toward me are not such as to warrant the 
hope that she would accept a proposal of marriage 
from me.” 

“Have you ever asked her?” 

“No, sir. But we often know these things too well 
without asking.” 


126 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


“Pooh, pooh! the little monkey must love you. 
Why, you were her first playfellow; and I remember 
she used to cry if you cut your finger. Besides, she 
has always silently admitted that you were her lover. 
You know I have always spoken of you to her in 
that light. I took it for granted you had settled the 
business between yourselves; so did Anthony. An¬ 
thony thinks she’s in love with you, and he has 
young eyes, which are apt enough to see clearly in 
these matters. He was talking to me about it this 
morning, and pleased me very much by the friendly 
interest he showed in you and Tina.” 

The blood—more than was wanted-—rushed back 
to Mr. Gilfil’s face; he set his teeth and clenched 
his hands in the effort to repress a burst of indig¬ 
nation. Sir Christopher noticed the flush, but 
thought it indicated the fluctuation of hope and fear 
about Caterina. He went on:— 

“You’re too modest by half, Maynard. A fellow 
who can take a five-barred gate as you can, ought 
not to be so faint-hearted. If you can’t speak to 
her yourself, leave me to talk to her.” 

“Sir Christopher,” said poor Maynard earnestly, 
“I shall really feel it the greatest kindness you can 
possibly show me not to mention this subject to 
Caterina at present. I think such a proposal, made 
prematurely, might only alienate her from me.” 

Sir Christopher was getting a little displeased at 
this contradiction. His tone became a little sharper 
as he said, “Have you any grounds to state for this 
opinion, beyond your general notion that Tina is 
not enough in love with you?” 

“I can state none beyond my own very strong im¬ 
pression that she does not love me well enough to 
marry me.” 

“Then I think that ground is worth nothing at 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


127 


all. I am tolerably correct in my judgment of peo¬ 
ple; and if I am not very much deceived in Tina, she 
looks forward to nothing else but to your being her 
husband. Leave me to manage the matter as I think 
best. You may rely on me that I' shall do no harm 
to your cause, Maynard/’ 

Mr. Gilfil, afraid to say more, yet wretched in the 
prospect of what might result from Sir Christopher’s 
determination, quitted the library in a state of 
mingled indignation against Captan Wybrow, and 
distress for himself and Caterina. What would she 
think of him? She might suppose that he had in¬ 
stigated or sanctioned Sir Christopher’s proceeding. 
He should perhaps not have an opportunity of speak¬ 
ing to her on the subject in time; he would write 
her a note, and carry it up to her room after the 
dressing-bell had rung. No; that would agitate 
her, and unfit her for appearing at dinner, and pass¬ 
ing the evening calmly. He would defer it till bed¬ 
time. After prayers, he contrived to lead her back 
to the drawing-room, and to put a letter in her hand. 
She carried it up to her own room, wondering, and 
there read,— 

“Dear Caterina,—Do not suspect for a moment 
that anything Sir Christopher may say to you about 
our marriage has been prompted by me. I have 
done all I dare do to dissuade him from urging the 
subject, and have only been prevented from speak¬ 
ing more strongly by the dread of provoking ques¬ 
tions which I could not answer without causing you 
fresh misery. I write this, both to prepare 1 you for 
anything Sir Christopher may say, and to assure 
you—but I hope you already believe it—that your 
feelings are sacred to me. I would rather part with 
the dearest hope of my life than be the means of ad¬ 
ding to your trouble. 


128 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


“It is Captain Wybrow who has prompted Sir 
Christopher to take up the subject at this moment, 
I tell you this, to save you from hearing it suddenly 
when you are with Sir Christopher. You see now 
what sort of stuff that dastard’s heart is made of. 
Trust in me always, dearest Caterina, as—whatever 
may come—your faithful friend and brother, 

“Maynard Gilfil.” 

Caterina was at first too terribly stung by the 
words about Captain Wybrow to think of the diffi¬ 
culty which threatened her—to think either of what 
Sir Christopher would say to her, or of what she 
could say in reply. Bitter sense of injury, fierce 
resentment, left no room for fear. With the pois¬ 
oned garment upon him, the victim writhes under 
the torture—he has no thought of the coming death. 

Anthony could do this!—Of this there could be 
no explanation but the coolest contempt for her feel¬ 
ings, the basest sacrifice of all the consideration and 
tenderness he owed her to the ease of his position 
with Miss Assher. No. It was worse than that; 
it was deliberate, gratuitous cruelty. He wanted to 
show her how he despised her ; he wanted to make 
her feel her folly in having ever believed that he 
loved her. 

The last crystal drops of trust and tenderness, 
she thought, were dried up; all was parched, fiery 
hatred. Now she need no longer check her resent¬ 
ment by the fear of doing him an injustice; he had 
trifled with her, as^ Maynard had said; he had been 
reckless of her; and now he was base and cruel. 
She had cause enough for her bitterness and anger; 
they were not so wicked as they had seemed to her. 

As these thoughts were hurrying after each other 
like so many sharp throbs of fevered pain, she shed 
no tear. She paced restlessly to and fro, as her 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


129 


habit was—her hands clenched, her eyes gleaming 
fiercely and wandering uneasily, as if in search of 
something on which she might throw herself like a 
tigress. 

“If I could speak to him,” she whispered, “and 
tell him I hate him, I despise him, I loathe him!” 

Suddenly, as if a new thought had struck her, she 
drew a key from her pocket, and unlocking an inlaid 
desk where she stored up her keepsakes, took from 
it a small miniature. It was in a very slight gold 
frame, with a ring to it, as if intended to be worn 
on a chain, and under the glass at the back were two 
locks of hair, one dark and the other auburn, ar¬ 
ranged in a fantastic knot. It was Anthony’s secret 
present to her a year ago—a copy he had had made 
specially for her. For the last month she had not 
taken it from its hiding-place: there was no need 
to heighten the vividness of the past. But now she 
clutched it fiercely, and dashed it across the room 
against the bare hearthstone. 

Will she crush it under her feet, and grind it under 
her high-heeled shoe, till every trace of those false 
cruel features is gone? 

Ah, no! She rushed across the room; but when 
she saw the little treasure she had cherished so 
fondly, so often smothered with kisses, so often laid 
under her pillow, and remembered with the first re¬ 
turn of consciousness in the morning—when she saw 
this one visible relic of the too happy past lying 
with the glass shivered, the hair fallen out, the thin 
ivory cracked, there was a revulsion of the over¬ 
strained feeling: relenting came, and she burst into 
tears. 

Look at her stooping down to gather up her treas¬ 
ure, searching for the hair and replacing it, and 
then mournfully examining the crack that disfigures 


130 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


the once-loved image. Alas! there is no glass now 
to guard either the hair or the portrait; but see how 
carefully she wraps delicate paper round it, and 
locks it up again in its old place. Poor child! God 
send the relenting may always come before the worst 
irrevocable deed! 

This action had quieted her, and she sat down to 
read Maynard’s letter again. She read it two or 
three times without seeming to take in the sense; 
her apprehension was dulled by the passion of the 
last hour, and she found it difficult to call up the 
ideas suggested by the words. At last she began 
to have a distinct conception of the impending inter¬ 
view with Sir Christopher. The idea of displeasing 
the Baronet, of whom every one at the Manor stood 
in awe, frightened her so much that she thought it 
would be impossible to resist his wish. He believed 
that she loved Maynard; he had always spoken as if 
he were quite sure of it. How could she tell him 
he was deceived—and what if he were to ask her 
whether she loved anybody else? To have Sir Chris¬ 
topher looking angrily at her was more than she 
could bear, even in imagination. He had always 
been so good to her! Then she began to think of 
the pain she might give him, and the more selfish 
distress of fear gave way to the distress of affection. 
Unselfish tears began to flow, and sorrowful grati¬ 
tude to Sir Christopher helped to awaken her sensi¬ 
bility to Mr. GilfiTs tenderness and generosity. 

“Dear, good Maynard!—what a poor return I make 
him! If I could but have loved him instead—but I 
can never love or care for anything again. My heart 
is broken.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


The next morning the dreaded moment came. Cat- 
erina, stupified by the suffering of the previous 
night, with that dull mental aching which follows on 
acute anguish, was in Lady CheverePs sitting-room, 
copying out some charity lists, when her ladyship 
came in, and said,— 

“Tina, Sir Christopher wants you; go down into 
the library.” 

She went down trembling. As soon as she en¬ 
tered, Sir Christopher, who was seated near his 
writing-table, said, “Now, little monkey, come and 
sit down by me; I have something to tell you.” 

Caterina took a footstool, and seated herself on it 
at the Baronet’s feet. It was her habit to sit on 
these low stools, and in this way she could hide her 
face better. She put her little arm round his leg, 
and leaned her cheek against his knee. 

“Why, you seem out of spirits this morning, Tina. 
What’s the matter, eh?” 

“Nothing, Padroncello, only my head is bad.” 

“Poor monkey! Well, now wouldn’t it do the head 
good if I were to promise you a good husband, and 
smart little wedding-gowns, and by and by a house 
of your own, where you would be a little mistress, 
and Padroncello would come and see you some¬ 
times?” 

“0 no, no! I shouldn’t like ever to be married. 
Let me always stay with you!” 

“Pooh, pooh, little simpleton. I shall get old and 
tiresome, and there will be Anthony’s children put¬ 
ting your nose out of joint. You will want some one 
to love you best of all, and you must have children 
of your own to love. I can’t have you withering away 
into an old maid. I hate old maids. They make me dis- 
[ 131 ] 


132 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


mal to look at them. I never see Sharp without shud¬ 
dering. My little black-eyed monkey was never 
meant for anything so ugly. And there’s Maynard 
Gilfil, the best man in the county, worth his weight 
in gold, heavy as he is; he loves you better than 
his eyes. And you love him too, you silly monkey, 
whatever you may say about not being married.” 

“(Nto, no, dear Padroncello, do not say so; I could 
not marry him.” 

“Why not, you foolish child? You don’t know 
your own mind. Why, it is plain to everybody that 
you love him. My lady has all along said she was 
sure you loved him—she has seen what little prin¬ 
cess airs you put on to him; and Anthony too, he 
thinks you are in love with Gilfil. Come, what has 
made you take it into your head that you wouldn’t 
like to marry him?” 

Caterina was now sobbing too deeply to make any 
answer. Sir Christopher patted her on the back and 
said, “Come, come; why, Tina, you are not well this 
morning. Go and rest, little one.- You will see 
things in quite another light when you are well. 
Think over what I have said, and remember there 
is nothing, after Anthony’s marriage, that I have 
set my heart on so much as seeing you and Maynard 
settled for life. I must have no whims and follies— 
no nonsense.” This was said with a slight severity; 
but he presently added, in a soothing tone, “There, 
there, stop crying, and be a good little monkey. Go 
and lie down and get to sleep.” 

Caterina slipped from the stool on to her knees, 
took the old Baronet’s hand, covered it with tears 
and kisses, and then ran out of the room. 

Before the evening, Captain Wybrow had heard 
from his uncle the result of the interview with 
Caterina. He thought, “If I could have a long quiet 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


133 


talk with her, I could perhaps persuade her to look 
more reasonably at things. But there’s no speaking 
to her in the house without being interrupted, and 
I can hardly see her anywhere else without Beatrice’s 
finding it out.” At last he determined to make it 
a matter of confidence with Miss Assher—to tell her 
that he wished to talk to Caterina quietly for the 
sake of bringing her to a calmer state of mind, and 
persuade her to listen to 'Gilfil’s affection. He was 
very much pleased with this judicious and candid 
plan, and in the course of the evening he had ar¬ 
ranged with himself the time and place of meeting, 
and had communicated his purpose to Miss Assher, 
who gave her entire approval. Anthony, she thought, 
would do well to speak plainly and seriously to Miss 
Sarti. He was really very patient and kind to her, 
considering how she behaved. 

Tina had kept her room all that day, and had been 
carefully tended as an invalid. Sir Christopher hav¬ 
ing told her ladyship how matters stood. This tend¬ 
ance was so irksome to Caterina, she felt so uneasy 
under attentions and kindness that were based on 
a misconception, that she exerted herself to appear 
at breakfast the next morning, and declared herself 
well, though head and heart were throbbing. To be 
confined in her own room was intolerable; it was 
wretched enough to be looked at and spoken to, but 
it was more wretched to be left alone. She was 
frightened at her own sensations: she was frightened 
at the imperious vividness with which pictures of 
the past and future thrust themselves on her imag¬ 
ination. And there was another feeling, too, which 
made her want to be down stairs and moving about. 
Perhaps she might have an opportunity of speaking 
to Captain Wybrow alone—of speaking those words 
of hatred and scorn that burned on her tongue. That 


134 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


opportunity offered itself in a very unexpected man¬ 
ner. 

Lady Cheverel having sent Caterina out of the 
drawing-room to fetch some patterns of embroidery 
from her sitting-room, Captain Wybrow presently 
walked out after her, and met her as she was return¬ 
ing down stairs. 

'‘Caterina,” he said, laying his hand on her arm as 
she was hurrying on without looking at him, “will 
you meet me in the Rookery 1 at twelve o’clock? I 
must speak to you, and we shall be in privacy there. 
I cannot speak to you in the house.” 

To his surprise, there was a flash of pleasure 
across her face; she answered shortly and decidedly, 
“Yes,” then snatched her arm away from him, and 
passed down stairs. 

Miss Assher was this morning busy winding silks, 
being bent on emulating Lady Cheverel’s embroid¬ 
ery, and Lady Assher chose the passive amusement 
of holding the skeins. Lady Cheverel had now all 
her working apparatus about her, and Caterina, 
thinking she was not wanted, went away and sat 
down to the harpsichord in the sitting-room. It 
seemed as if playing massive chords—bringing out 
volumes of sound, would be the easiest way of pass¬ 
ing the long feverish moments before twelve o’clock. 
Handel’s “Messiah,” 2 stood open on the desk, at the 

’A place where rooks gather to breed. 

"George Frederick Handel, 1685-1759, a German by birth, 
came to England towards the close of 1710, and there lived 
for the rest of his life. He composed many operas, but 
his fame is based on his oratorios, sacred compositions for 
solo voices, choruses, and orchestra, semi-dramatic, sung 
without action. Of his oratorios the Messiah is the besr 
known. Caterina is playing the fourth chorus in the sec¬ 
ond part. A fugue is one of the most difficult of musical 
forms. It is based upon one, two, or even more themes, 



Mr. Gilfil/s Love Story 


135 


chorus “All we like sheep,” and Caterina threw her¬ 
self at once into the impetuous intricacies of that 
magnificent fugue. In her happiest moments she 
could never have played it so well; for now all the 
passion that made her misery was hurled by a con¬ 
vulsive effort into her music, just as pain gives new 
force to the clutch of the sinking wrestler, and as 
terror gives far-sounding intensity to the shriek of 
the feeble. 

But at half-past eleven she was interrupted by 
Lady Cheverel, who said, “Tina, go down, will you, 
and hold Miss Assher’s silks for her. Lady Assher 
and I have decided on having our drive before lunch¬ 
eon.” 

Caterina went down, wondering how she would 
escape from) the drawing-room in time to be in the 
Rookery at twelve. Nothing should prevent her from 
going; nothing should rob her of this one precious 
moment—perhaps the last—when she could speak 
out the thoughts that were in her. After that, she 
would be passive; she would bear anything. 

But she had scarcely sat down with a skein of 
yellow silk on her hands, when Miss Assher said, 
graciously,— 

“I know you have an engagement with Captain 
Wybrow this morning. You must not let me detain 
you beyond the time.” 

“So he has been talking to her about me,” thought 
Caterina. Her hands began to tremble as she held 
the skein. 

Miss Assher continued, in the same gracious tone: 
“It is tedious work holding these skeins. I am sure 
I am very much obliged to you.” 

which are enunciated by the several voices or parts in 
turn; gradually these are built up into a complex form 
having somewhat distinct divisions of development and a 
marked climax at the end. 



136 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


“No, you are not obliged to me,” said Caterina, 
completely mastered by her irritation; “I have only 
done it because Lady Cheverel told me.” 

The moment was come when Miss Assher could no 
longer suppress her long latent desire to “let Miss 
Sarti know the impropriety of her conduct.” With 
the malicious anger that assumes the tone of com¬ 
passion, she said,— 

“Miss Sarti, I am really sorry for you, that you 
are not able to control yourself better. This giving 
way to unwarrantable feelings is lowering you— it 
is indeed.” 

“What unwarrantable feelings?” said Caterina, 
letting her hands fall, and fixing her great dark eyes 
steadily on Miss Assher. 

“It is quite unnecessary for me to say more. You 
must be conscious of what I mean. Only summon a 
sense of duty to your aid. You are paining Captain 
Wybrow extremely by your want of self-control.” 

“Did he tell you I pained him?” 

“Yes, indeed, he did. He is very much hurt that 
you should behave to me as if you had a sort of 
enmity towards me. He would like you to make a 
friend of me. I assure you we both feel very kind¬ 
ly towards you, and are sorry you should cherish 
such feelings.” 

“He is very good,” said Caterina, bitterly. “What 
feelings did he say I cherished?” 

This bitter tone increased Miss Assher’s irritation. 
There was still a lurking suspicion in her mind, 
though she would not admit it to herself, that Cap¬ 
tain Wybrow had told her a falsehood about his 
conduct and feelings towards Caterina. It was this 
suspicion, more even than the anger of the mo¬ 
ment, which urged her to say something that would 
test the truth of his statement. That she would fee 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


137 


humiliating Caterina at the same time, was only an 
additional temptation. 

“These are things I do not like to talk of, Miss 
Sarti. I cannot even understand how a woman can 
indulge a passion for a man who has never given 
her the least ground for it, as Captain Wybrow as¬ 
sures me is the case.” 

“He told you that, did he?” said Caterina, in clear 
low tones, her lips turning white as she rose from 
her chair. 

“Yes, indeed, he did. He was bound to tell it to 
me after your strange behaviour.” 

Caterina said nothing, but turned round suddenly 
and left the room. 

See how she rushes noiselessly, like a pale meteor, 
along the passages and up the gallery stairs! Those 
gleaming eyes, those bloodless lips, that swift tread, 
make her look like the incarnation of a fierce pur¬ 
pose, rather than a woman. The midday sun is 
shining on the armour in the gallery, making mimic 
suns on bossed sword-hilts and the angles of pol¬ 
ished breast-plates. Yes, there are sharp weapons in 
the gallery. There is a dagger in that cabinet; she 
knows it well. And as a dragon-fly wheels in its 
flight to alight for an instant on a leaf, she darts to 
the cabinet, takes out the dagger, and thrusts it into 
her pocket. In three minutes more she is out, in 
hat and cloak, on the gravel-walk, hurrying along 
towards the thick shades of the distant Rookery. She 
threads the windings of the plantations, 3 not feeling 
the golden leaves that rain upon her, not feeling the 
earth beneath her feet. Her hand is in her pocket., 
clenching the handle of the dagger, which she holds 
half out of its sheath. 

•She reached the Rookery, and is under the gloom 


3 A wood of planted trees. 



138 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


of the interlacing boughs. Her heart throbs as if it 
would burst her bosom—as if every next leap must 
be its last. Wait, wait, 0 heart!—till she has done 
this one deed. He will be there—he will be before 
her in a moment. He will come towards her with 
that false smile, thinking she does not know his base¬ 
ness—she will plunge that dagger into his heart. 

Poor child! poor child! she who used to cry to 
have the fish put back into the water—who never 
willingly killed the smallest living thing—dreams 
now, in the madness of her passion, that she can kill 
the man whose very voice unnerves her. 

But what is that lying among the dank leaves on 
fhe path three yards before her? 

Good God! it is he—lying motionless—his hat 
fallen off. He is ill, then—he has fainted. Her hand 
lets go the dagger, and she rushes towards him. 
His eyes are fixed; he does not see her. She sinks 
down on her knees, takes the dear head in her arms, 
and kisses the cold forehead. 

“Anthony, Anthony! speak to me—it is Tina— 
speak to me! 0 God, he is dead!” 


CHAPTER XIV 


“Yes, Maynard,” said Sir Christopher, chatting 
with Mr. Grillil in the library, “it really is a remark¬ 
able thing that I never in my life laid a plan, and 
failed to carry it out. I lay my plans well, and I 
never swerve from them—that’s it. A strong will 
is the only magic. And next to striking out one’s 
plans, the pleasantest thing in the world is to see 
them well accomplished. This year, now, will be the 
happiest of my life, all but the year ’53, when I came 
into possession of the Manor, and married Henrietta. 
The last touch is given to the old house; Anthony’s 
marriage—the thing I had nearest my heart—is set¬ 
tled to my entire satisfaction, and by and by you 
will be buying a little wedding-ring for Tina’s finger. 
Don’t shake your head in that forlorn way;— when 
I make prophecies they generally come to pass. But 
there’s a quarter after twelve striking. I must be 
riding to the High Ash to meet Markham about fell¬ 
ing some timber. My old oaks will have to groan 
for this wedding, but”— 

The door burst open, and Caterina, ghastly and 
panting, her eyes distended with terror, rushed in, 
threw her arms round Sir Christopher’s neck, and 
gasping out—“Anthony . . . the Rookery. . .dead . . . 
in the Rookery,” fell fainting on the floor. 

In a moment Sir Christopher was out of the room, 
and Mr. Gilfil was bending to raise Caterina in his 
arms. As he lifted her from the ground he felt 
something hard and heavy in her pocket. What 
could it be? The weight of it would be enough to 
hurt her as she lay. He carried her to the sofa, 
put his hand in her pocket, and drew forth the dag¬ 
ger. 

Maynard shuddered. Did she mean to kill herself, 
then, or ... or ... a horrible suspicion forced itself 
ri39J 


140 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


upon him. “Dead—in the Rookery.” He hated him¬ 
self for the thought that prompted him to draw the 
dagger from its sheath. No! there was no trace of 
blood, and he was ready to kiss the good steel for its 
innocence. He thrust the weapon into his own 
pocket; he would restore it as soon as possible to 
its well-known place in the gallery. Yet, why had 
Caterina taken this dagger? What was it that had 
happened in the Rookery? Was it only a delirious 
vision of hers? 

He was afraid to ring—afraid to summon any one 
to Caterina’s assistance. What might she not say 
when she awoke from this fainting fit? She might 
be raving. He could not leave her, and yet he felt 
as if he were guilty for not following Sir Christopher 
to see what was the truth. It took but a moment to 
think and feel all this, but that moment seemed such 
a long agony to him, that he began to reproach him¬ 
self for letting it pass without seeking some means 
of reviving Caterina. Happily the decanter of 
water on Sir Christopher’s table was untouched. 
He would at least try the effect of throwing that 
water over her. She might revive without his need¬ 
ing to call any one else. 

Meanwhile Sir .Christopher was hurrying at his 
utmost speed towards the Rookery; his face, so late¬ 
ly bright and confident, now agitated by a vague 
dread. The deep alarmed bark of Rupert, who ran 
by his side, had struck the ear of Mr. Bates, then 
on his way homeward, as something unwonted, and, 
hastening in the direction of the sound, he met the 
Baronet just as he was approaching the entrance -of 
the Rookery. Sir Christopher’s look was enough. 
Mr. Bates said nothing, but hurried along by his 
side, while Rupert dashed forward among the dead 
leaves with his nose to the ground. They had 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


141 


scarcely lost sight of him a minute when a change in 
the tone of his bark told them that he had found 
something, and in another instant he was leaping 
back over one of the large planted mounds. They 
turned aside to ascend the mound, Rupert leading 
them; the tumultuous cawing of the rooks, the very 
rustling of the leaves, as their feet plunged among 
them, falling like an evil omen on the Baronet's ear. 

They have reached the summit of the mound, and 
have begun to descend. Sir Christopher sees some¬ 
thing purple down on the path below among the 
yellow leaves. Rupert is already beside it, but Sir 
Christopher cannot move faster. A tremor has taken 
hold of the firm limbs. Rupert comes back and licks 
the trembling hand, as if to say “Courage!” and 
then is down again snuffing the body. Yes, it is a 
body . . . Anthony’s body. There is the white hand 
with its diamond ring clutching the dark leaves. His 
eyes are half open, but do not heed the gleam of 
sunlight that darts itself directly on them from be¬ 
tween the boughs. 

Still he might only have fainted; it might only be 
a fit. Sir Christopher knelt down, unfastened the 
cravat, unfastened the waistcoat, and laid his hand 
on the heart. It might be syncope ; 1 it might not— 
it could not be death. No! that thought must be 
kept far off. 

“Go, Bates, get help; we’ll carry him to your cot¬ 
tage. Send some one to the house to tell Mr. Gilfil 
and Warren. Bid them send off for Doctor Hart, and 
break it to my Lady and Miss Assher that Anthony 
is ill.” 

Mr. Bates hastened away, and the Baronet was 
left alone kneeling beside the body. The young and 


1 A fainting-fit. 



142 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


supple limbs, the rounded cheeks, the delicate ripe 
lips, the smooth white hands, were lying- cold and 
rigid; and the aged face was bending over them in 
silent anguish, the aged deep-veined hands were 
seeking- with tremulous inquiring touches for some 
symptom that life was not irrevocably gone. 

Rupert was there too, waiting and watching; lick¬ 
ing first the dead and then the living hands; then 
running off on Mr. Bates’s track as if he would fol¬ 
low and hasten his return, but in a moment turning 
back again, unable to quit the scene of his master’s 
sorrow. 


CHAPTER XV 


It is a wonderful moment, the first time we stand 
by one who has fainted, and witness the fresh birth 
of consciousness spreading itself over the blank 
features, like the rising sunlight on the alpine sum¬ 
mits that lay ghastly and dead under the leaden 
twilight. A slight shudder, and the frost-bound eyes 
recover their liquid light; for an instant they show 
the inward semiconsciousness of an infant’s, then, 
with a little start, they open wider and begin to 
look; the present is visible, but only as a strange 
writing, and the interpreter Memory is not yet there. 

Mr. Gilfil felt a trembling joy as this change 
passed over Caterina’s face. He bent over her, rub¬ 
bing her chill hands, and looking at her with tender 
pity as her dark eyes opened on him wonderingly. 
He thought there might be some wine in the dining¬ 
room close by. He left the room, and Caterina’s eyes 
turned towards the window—towards Sir Christo¬ 
pher’s chair. There was the link at which the chain of 
consciousness had snapped, and the events of the morn¬ 
ing were beginning to recur dimly like a half-remem¬ 
bered dream, when Maynard returned with some 
wine., He raised her and she drank it; but still she 
was silent, seeming lost in the attempt to recover the 
past, when the door opened, and Mr. Warren ap¬ 
peared with looks that announced terrible tidings. 
Mr. Gilfil, dreading lest he should tell them in 
Caterina’s presence, hurried towards him with his 
finger on his lips, and drew him away into the din¬ 
ing-room on the opposite side of the passage. 

Caterina, revived by the stimulant, was now re¬ 
covering the full consciousness of the scene of the 
Rookery. Anthony was lying there dead; she had 
left him to tell Sir Christopher; she must go and 
[ 143 ] 


144 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


see what they were doing with him; perhaps he was 
not really dead—only in a trance; people did fall in¬ 
to trances sometimes. While Mr. Gilfil was telling 
Warren how it would be best to break the news to 
Lady Cheverel and Miss Assher, anxious himself to 
return to Caterina, the poor child had made her 
way feebly to the great entrance-door, which stood 
open. Her strength increased as she moved and 
breathed , the fresh air, and with every increase of 
strength came increased vividness of emotion, in¬ 
creased yearning to be where her thought was—in 
the Rookery with Anthony. She walked more and 
more swiftly, and at last, gathering the artificial 
strength of passionate excitement, began to run. 

But soon she hears the tread of heavy steps, and 
under the yellow shade near the wooden bridge, she 
sees men slowly carrying something. Now she is 
face to face with them. Anthony is no longer in 
the Rookery: they are carrying him stretched on a 
door, and there behind him is Sir Christopher, with 
the firmly-set mouth, the deathly paleness, and the 
concentrated expression of suffering in the eye, 
which mark the suppressed grief of the strong man. 
The sight of his face, on which Caterina had never 
before beheld the signs of anguish, caused a rush 
of new feeling which for the moment submerged 
all the rest. She went gently up to him, put her 
little hand in his, and walked in silence by his side. 
Sir Christopher could not tell her to leave him. and 
so she went on with that sad procession to Mr. 
Bates’s cottage in the Mosslands, and sat there in 
silence, waiting and watching to know if Anthony 
were really dead. 

She had not yet missed the dagger from her 
pocket; she had not yet even thought of it. At the 


Mr. Gilfii/s Love Story 


145 


sight of Anthony lying dead, her nature had re¬ 
bounded from its new bias of resentment and hatred 
to the old sweet habit of love. The earliest and the 
longest has still the mastery over us ; and the only 
past that linked itself with those glazed unconscious 
eyes, was the past when they beamed on her with 
tenderness. She forgot the interval of wrong and 
jealousy and hatred—all his cruelty, and all her 
thoughts of revenge—as an exile forgets the stormy 
passage that lay between home and happiness, and 
the dreary land in which he finds himself desolate. 


CHAPTER XVI 


Before night all hope was gone. Dr. Hart had 
said it was death; Anthony’s body had been carried 
to the house, and every one there knew the calamity 
that had fallen on them. 

Caterina had been questioned by Dr. Hart, and 
had answered briefly that she found Anthony lying 
in the Rookery. That she should have been walking 
there just at that time was not a coincidence to raise 
conjectures in any one besides Mr. Gilfil. Except in 
answering this question, she had not broken her 
silence. She sat mute in a corner of the gardener’s 
kitchen, shaking her head when Maynard entreated 
her to return with him, and apparently unable to 
think of anything but the possibility that Anthony 
might revive, until she saw them carrying away the 
body to the house. Then she followed by Sir Chris¬ 
topher’s side again, so quietly, that even Dr. Hart 
did not object to her presence. 

It was decided to lay the- body in the library un¬ 
til after the coroner’s inquest to-morrow; and when 
Caterina saw the door finally closed, she turned up 
the gallery stairs on her way to her own room, the 
place* where she felt at home with her sorrows. It 
was tne first time she had been in the gallery since 
that terrible moment in the morning, and now the 
spot and the objects around began to reawaken her 
half-stunned memory. The armour was no longer 
glittering in the sunlight, but there it hung dead 
and sombre above the cabinet from which she had 
taken the dagger. Yes! now it all came back to her 
—all the wretchedness and all the sin. But where 
was the dagger now? She felt in her pocket; it 
was not there. Could it have been her fancy—all 
that about the dagger? She looked in the cabinet; 
it was not there. Alas! no; it could not have been 
[ 146 ] 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


147 


her fancy, and she was guilty of that wickedness. 
But where could the dagger be now? Could it have 
fallen out of her pocket? She heard steps ascend¬ 
ing the stairs, and hurried on to her room, where 
kneeling by the bed, and burying her face to shut 
out the hateful light, she tried to recall every feel¬ 
ing and incident of the morning. 

It all came back; everything Anthony had done, 
and everything she had felt for the last month—for 
many months—ever since that June evening when 
he had last spoken to her in the gallery. She looked 
back on her storms of passion, her jealousy and 
hatred of Miss Assher, her thoughts of revenge on 
Anthony. 0 how wicked she had been! It was she 
who had been sinning; it was she who had driven 
him to do and say those things that had made her 
so angry. And if he had wronged her, what had 
she been on the verge of doing to him? She was too 
wicked ever to be pardoned. She would like to con¬ 
fess how wicked she had been, that they might 
punish her; she would like to humble herself to the 
dust before every one—before Miss Assher even. 
Sir Christopher would send her away—would never 
see her again, if he knew all; and she would be hap¬ 
pier to be punished and frowned on, than to be 
treated tenderly while she had that guilty secret 
in her breast. But then, if Sir Christopher were to 
know all, it would add to his sorrow, and make him 
more wretched than ever. No! she could not con¬ 
fess it—she should have to tell about Anthony. But 
she could not stay at the Manor; she must go away; 
she could not bear Sir Christopher’s eye, could not 
bear the sight of all these things that reminded her 
of Anthony and of her sin. Perhaps she should die 
soon; she felt very feeble; there could not be much 
life in her. She would go away and live humbly, 


148 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


and pray to God to pardon her, and let her die. 

The poor child never thought of suicide. No 
sooner was the storm of anger passed than the ten¬ 
derness and timidity of her nature returned, and 
she could do nothing but love and mourn. Her 1 in¬ 
experience prevented her from imagining the con¬ 
sequences of her disappearance from the Manor; 
she foresaw none of the terrible details of alarm 
and distress and search that must ensue. “They 
will think I am dead,” she said to herself, “and by 
and by they will forget me, and Maynard will get 
happy again, and love some one else.” 

She was aroused from her absorption by a knock 
at the door. Mrs. Bellamy was there. She had come 
by Mr. Gilfil’s request to see how Miss Sarti was, 
and to bring her some food and wine. 

“You look sadly, my dear,” said the old house¬ 
keeper, “an’ you’re all of a quake wi’ cold. Get you 
to bed, now do. Martha shall come an’ warm it, an’ 
light your fire. See now, here’s some nice arrow- 
root, 1 wi’ a drop o’ wine in it. Tek that, an’ it’ll warm 
you. I must go down again, for I can’t awhile to 
stay. There’s so many things to see to; an’ Miss 
Assher’s in hysterics constant, an’ her maid’s ill i’ bed 
—a poor creachy 2 thing—an’ Mrs. Sharp’s wanted 
every minute. But I’ll send Martha up, an’ do you 
get ready to go to bed, there’s a dear child, an’ tek 
care o’ yourself.” 

“Thank you, dear mammy,” said Tina, kissing the 
little old woman’s wrinkled cheek; “I shall eat the 
arrowroot, and don’t trouble about me any more 
to-night. I shall do very well when Martha has 
lighted my fire. Tell Mr. Gilfil I’m better. I shall 

1 A starch from the roots of a tropical American plant 
of the ginger family; good for convalescents. 

^Infirm, ailing (Eng. dial.) 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


149 


go to bed by and by, so don’t you come up again, 
because you may only disturb me.” 

“Well, well, tek care o’ yourself, there’s a good 
child, an’ God send you may sleep.’’ 

Caterina took the arrowroot quite eagerly, while 
Martha was lighting her fire. She wanted to get 
strength for her journey, and she kept the plate of 
biscuits by her that she might put some in her 
pocket. Her whole mind was now bent on going 
away from the Manor, and she was thinking of all 
the ways and means her little life’s experience could 
suggest. 

It was dusk now; she must wait till early dawn, for 
she was too timid to go away in the dark, but she 
must make her escape before any one was up in the 
house. There would be people watching Anthony in 
the library, but she could make her way out of a 
small door leading into the garden, against the 
drawing-room on the other side of the house. 

She laid her cloak, bonnet, and veil ready; then 
she lighted a candle, opened her desk, and took out 
the broken portrait wrapped in paper. She folded 
it again in two little notes of Anthony’s, written in 
pencil, and placed it in her bosom. There was the lit¬ 
tle china box, too—Dorcas’s present, the pearl ear¬ 
rings, and a silk purse, with fifteen seve'n-shilling 
pieces in it, the present Sir Christopher had made 
her on her birthday, ever since she had been at the 
Manor. Should she take the earrings and the seven¬ 
shilling pieces? She could not bear to part with 
them; it seemed as if they had some of Sir Christo¬ 
pher’s love in them. She would like them to be buried 
with her. She fastened the little round earrings in 
her ears, and put the purse with Dorcas’s box in her 
pocket. She had another purse there, and she took 
it out to count her money, for she would never spend 


150 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


her seven-shilling pieces. She had a guinea and 
eight shillings; that would be plenty. 

So now she sat down to wait for the morning, 
afraid to lay herself on the bed lest she should 
sleep too long. If she could but see Anthony once 
more and kiss his cold forehead! But that could 
not be. She did not deserve it. She must go away 
from him, away from Sir Christopher, and Lady 
Cheverel, and Maynard, and everybody who had 
been kind to her, and thought her good while 
she was so wicked. 


CHAPTER XVII 


Some of Mrs. Sharp’s earliest thoughts, the next 
morning, were given to Caterina, whom she had not 
been able to visit the evening before, and whom, 
from a nearly equal mixture of affection and self- 
importance, she did not at all like resigning to Mrs. 
Bellamy’s care. At half-past eight o’clock she went 
up to Tina’s room, bent on benevolent dictation as 
to doses and diet and lying in bed. But on opening 
the door she found the bed smooth and empty. Evi¬ 
dently it had not been slept in. What could this 
mean? Had she sat up all night, and was she gone 
out to walk? The poor thing’s head might be 
touched by what had happened yesterday; it was 
such a shock—finding Captain Wybrow in that way; 
she was perhaps gone out of her mind. Mrs. Sharp 
looked anxiously in the place where Tina kept her 
hat and cloak, they were not there, so that she had 
had at least the presence of mind to put them on. 
Still the good woman felt greatly alarmed, and has¬ 
tened away to tell Mr. Gilfil, who she knew, was in 
his study. 

“Mr. Gilfil,” she said, as soon as she had closed 
the door behind her, “my mind misgives me dread¬ 
ful about Miss Sarti.” 

“What is it?” said poor Maynard, with a horrible 
fear that Caterina had betrayed something about the 
dagger. 

“She’s not in her room, an’ her bed’s not been 
slept in this night, an’ her hat an’ cloak’s gone.” 

For a minute or two Mr. Gilfil was unable to 
speak. He felt sure the worst had come: Caterina 
had destroyed herself. The strong man suddenly 
looked so ill and helpless that Mrs. Sharp began to 
be frightened at the effect of her abruptness. 

[ 151 ] 


152 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


“0, sir, I’m grieved to my heart to shock you so; 
but I didn’t know who else to go to.” 

“No, no, you were quite right.” 

He gathered some strength from his very des¬ 
pair. It was all over, and he had nothing now to 
do but to suffer and to help the suffering. He went 
on in a firmer voice: 

“Be sure not to breathe a word about it to any 
one. We must not alarm Lady Cheverel and Sir 
Christopher. Miss Sarti may be only walking in the 
garden. She was terribly excited by what she saw 
yesterday, and perhaps was unable to lie down from 
restlessness. Just go quietly through the empty 
rooms, and see whether she is in the house. I will 
go and look for her in the grounds.” 

He went down, and, to avoid giving any alarm In 
the house, walked at once toward the Mosslands 
in search of Mr. Bates, whom he met returning from 
his breakfast. To the gardener he confided his fear 
about Caterina, assigning as a reason for this fear 
the probability that the shock she had undergone 
yesterday had unhinged her mind, and begging him 
to send men in search of her through the gardens 
and park, and inquire if she had been seen at the 
lodges; and if she were not found or heard of in 
this way, to lose no time in dragging the waters 
around the Manor. 

“God forbid it should be so, Bates, but we shall 
be the easier for having searched everywhere.” 

“Troost to mae, troost to mae, Mr. Gilfil. Eh! 
but I’d ha’ worked for day-wage all the rest o’ my 
life, rather than anythin’ should ha’ happened to 
her.” 

The good gardener, in deep distress, strode away 
to the stables that he might send the grooms on 
horseback through the park. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


153 


Mr. Gilfil’s next thought was to search the Rook¬ 
ery: she might be haunting the scene of Captain 
Wybrow’s death. He went hastily over every mound, 
looked round every large tree, and followed every 
winding of the walks. In reality he had little hope 
of finding her there; but the bare possibility fenced 
off for a time the fatal conviction that Caterina’s 
body would be found in the water. When the Rook¬ 
ery had been searched in vain, he walked fast to 
the border of the little stream that bounded one side 
of the grounds. The stream was almost everywhere 
hidden among trees, and there was one place where 
it was broader and deeper than elsewhere—she 
would be more likely to come to that spot than the 
pool. He hurried along with strained eyes, his im¬ 
agination continually creating what he dreaded to 
see. 

There is something white behind that overhang¬ 
ing bough. His knees tremble under him. He seems 
to see part of her dress caught on a branch, and 
her dear dead face upturned. 0 God, give strength 
to thy creature, on whom thou hast laid this great 
agony! He is nearly up to the bough, and the white 
object is moving. It is a waterfowl, that spreads 
its wings and flies away screaming. He hardly* 
knows whether it is a relief or a disappointment 
that she is not there. The conviction that she is 
dead presses its cold weight upon him none the less 
heavily. 

As he reached the great pool in front of the 
Manor, he saw Mr. Bates, with a group of men al¬ 
ready there, preparing for the dreadful search which 
could only displace his vague despair by a definite 
horror; for the gardener, in his restless anxiety, had 
been unable to defer this until other means. of 
search had proved vain. The pool was not now 


154 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


laughing with sparkles among the water-lilies. It 
looked black and, cruel under the sombre sky, as if 
its cold depths held relentlessly all the murdered 
hope and joy of Maynard Gilfil’s life. 

Thoughts of the sad consequences for others as 
well as himself were crowding on his mind. The 
blinds and shutters were all closed in front of the 
Manor, and it was not likely that Sir Christopher 
would be aware of anything that was passing out¬ 
side; but Mr. Gilfil felt that Caterina’s disappear¬ 
ance could not long be concealed from him. The 
coroner’s inquest would be held shortly; she would 
be inquired for, and then it would be inevitable that 
the Baronet should know all. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


At twelve o’clock, when all search and inquiry 
had been in vain, and the coroner was expected ev¬ 
ery moment, Mr. Gilfil could no longer defer the 
hard duty of revealing this fresh calamity to Sir 
Christopher, who must otherwise have it discovered 
to him abruptly. 

The Baronet was seated in his dressing-mom, 
where the dark window-curtains were drawn so as 
to admit only a sombre light. It was the first time 
Mr. Gilfil had had an interview with him this morn¬ 
ing, and he was struck to see how a single day and 
night of grief had aged the fine old man. The lines 
in his brow and about his mouth were deepened; his 
complexion looked dull and withered; there was a 
swollen ridge under his eyes; and the eyes them¬ 
selves, which used to cast so keen a glance on the 
present, had the, vacant expression which tells that 
vision is no longer a sense, but a memory. 

He held out his hand to Maynard, who pressed 
it, and sat down beside him in silence. Sir Chris¬ 
topher’s heart began to swell at this unspoken sym¬ 
pathy; the tears would rise, would roll in great 
drops down his cheeks. The first tears he had shed 
since boyhood were for Anthony. 

Maynard felt as if his tongue were glued to the 
roof of his mouth. He could not speak first; he 
must wait until Sir Christopher said something 
which might lead on to the cruel words that must 
be spoken. 

At last the Baronet mastered himself enough to 
say, “I’m very weak, Maynard—God help me! I 
didn’t think anything would unman me in this way; 
but I’d built everything on that lad. Perhaps I’ve 
been wrong in not forgiving my sister. She lost 
[ 15^1 


156 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


one of her sons a little while ago. I’ve been too 
proud and obstinate.” 

“We can hardly learn humility and tenderness 
enough except by suffering,” said Maynard; “and 
God sees we are in need of suffering, for it is falling 
more and more heavily on us. We have a new 
trouble this morning.” 

“Tina?” said Sir Christopher, looking up anxious¬ 
ly—“is Tina ill?” 

“I am in dreadful uncertainty about her. She was 
very much agitated yesterday—and with her deli¬ 
cate health—I am afraid to think what turn the 
agitation may have taken.” 

“Is she delirious, poor dear little one?” 

“God only knows how she is. We are unable to 
find her. When Mrs. Sharp went up to her room 
this morning, it was empty. She had not been in 
bed. Her hat and cloak were gone. I have had 
search made for her everywhere—in the house and 
garden, in the park, and—in the water. No one 
has seen her since Martha went up to light her fire 
at seven o’clock in the evening.” 

While Mr. Gilfil was speaking, Sir Christopher’s 
eyes, which were eagerly turned on him, recovered 
some of their old keenness, and some sudden painful 
emotion, as at a new thought, flitted rapidly across 
his already agitated face, like the shadow of a dark 
cloud over the waves. When the pause came, he 
laid his hand on Mr. Gilfil’s arm, and said in a lower 
voice,— 

“Maynard, did that poor thing love Anthony?” 

“She did.” 

Maynard hesitated after these words, struggling 
between his reluctance to inflict a yet deeper wound 
on Sir Christopher, and his determination that no 
injustice should be done to Caterina. Sir Christo- 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


157 


pher’s eyes were still fixed on him in solemn in¬ 
quiry, and his own sunk towards the ground, while 
he tried to find the words that would tell the truth 
least cruelly. 

“You must not have any wrong thoughts about 
Tina,” he said at length. “I must tell you now, for 
her sake, what nothing but this should ever have 
caused to pass my lips. Captain Wybrow won her 
affections by attentions which, in his position, he was 
bound not to show her. Before his marriage was 
talked of, he had behaved to her like a lover.” 

Sir Christopher relaxed his hold of Maynard’s 
arm, and looked away from him. He was silent for 
some minutes, evidently attempting to master him¬ 
self, so as to be able to speak calmly. 

“I must see Henrietta immediately,” he said at 
last, with something of his old sharp decision; “she 
must know all; but we must keep it from every one 
else as far as possible. My dear boy,” he continued 
in a kinder tone, “the heaviest burthen has fallen 
on you. But we may find her yet; we must not de¬ 
spair: there has not been time enough for us to be 
certain. Poor dear little one! God help me! I 
thought I saw everything, and was stone-blind all 
the while.” 


CHAPTER XIX 


The sad slow week was gone by at last. At the 
coroner’s inquest a verdict of sudden death had been 
pronounced. Dr. Hart, acquainted with Captain Wy- 
brow’s previous state of health, had given his opin¬ 
ion that death had been imminent from long- 
established disease of the heart, though it had prob¬ 
ably been accelerated by some unusual emotion. 
Miss Assher was the only person who positively 
knew the motive that had led Captain Wybrow to 
the Rookery; but she had not mentioned Caterina’s 
name, and all painful details or inquiries were studi¬ 
ously kept from her. Mr. Giifil and Sir Christopher, 
however, knew enough to conjecture that the fatal 
agitation was due to an appointed meeting with Cat- 
erina. 

All search and inquiry after her had been fruit¬ 
less, and were the more likely to be so because they 
were carried on under the prepossession that she 
had committed suicide. |No one noticed the absence 
of the trifles she had taken from her desk; no one 
knew of the likeness, or that she had hoarded her 
seven-shilling pieces, and it was not remarkable that 
she should have happened to be wearing the pearl 
earrings. She had left the house, they thought, 
taking nothing with her; it seemed impossible she 
could have gone far; and she must have been in 
a state of mental excitement, that made it too prob¬ 
able she had only gone to seek relief in death. The 
same places within three or four miles of the Manor 
were searched again and again—every pond, every 
ditch in the neighborhood was examined. 

Sometimes Maynard thought that death might 
have come on unsought, from cold and exhaustion; 
and not a day passed but he wandered through the 
neighboring woods, turning up the heaps of dead 
[ 158 ] 


Mr. Gilfil's Love Story 


159 


leaves, as if it were possible her dear body could 
be hidden there. Then another horrible thought re¬ 
curred, and before each night came he had been 
again through all the uninhabited rooms of the 
house, to satisfy himself once more that she was not 
hidden behind some cabinet, or door, or curtain— 
that he should not find her there with madness in 
her eyes, looking and looking, and yet not seeing 
him. 

But at last those five long days and nights were 
at an end, the funeral was over, and the carriages 
were returning through the park. When they had 
set out, a heavy rain was falling; but now the clouds 
were breaking up, and a gleam of sunshine was 
sparkling among the dripping boughs under which 
they were passing. This gleam fell upon a man on 
horseback who was jogging slowly along, and whom 
Mr. Gilfil recognized, in spite of diminished rotund¬ 
ity, as Daniel Knott, the coachman who had mar¬ 
ried the rosy-cheeked Dorcas ten years before. 

Every new incident suggested the same thought to 
Mr. Gilfil; and his eye no sooner fell on Knott than 
he said to himself, “Can he be come to tell us any¬ 
thing about Caterina?” Then he remembered that 
Caterina had been very fond of Dorcas, and that 
she always had some present ready to send her when 
Knott paid an occasional visit to the Manor. Could 
Tina have gone to Dorcas? But his heart sank again 
as he thought, very likely Knott had only come be¬ 
cause he had heard of Captain Wybrow’s death, and 
wanted to know how his old master had borne the 
blow. 

As soon as the carriage reached the house, he 
went up to his study and walked about nervously, 
longing, but afraid, to go down and speak to Knott, 
lest his faint hope should be dissipated. Any one 


160 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


looking at that face, usually so full of calm good¬ 
will, would have seen that the last week’s suffering 
had left deep traces. By day he had been riding 
or wandering incessantly, either searching for Cat- 
erina himself, or directing inquiries to be made by 
others. By night he had not known sleep—only 
intermittent dozing, in which he seemed to be find¬ 
ing Caterina dead, and woke up with a start from 
this unreal agony to the real anguish of believing 
that he should see her no more. The clear grey eyes 
looked sunken and restless, the full careless lips had 
a strange tension about them, and the brow, formerly 
so smooth and open, was contracted as if with pain. 
He had not lost the object of a few months’ pas¬ 
sion; he had lost the being who was bound up with 
his power of loving, as the brook we played by or 
the flowers we gathered in childhood are bound up 
with our sense of beauty. Love meant nothing for 
him but to love Caterina. For years, the thought of 
her had been present in everything, like the air and 
the light; and now she was gone, it seemed as if all 
pleasure had lost its vehicle: the sky, the earth, the 
daily ride, the daily talk might be there, but the 
loveliness and the joy that were in them had gone 
for ever. 

Presently, as he still paced backwards and for¬ 
wards, he heard steps along the corridor, and there 
was a knock at his door. His voice trembled as he 
said, “Come in,” and the rush of renewed hope was 
hardly distinguishable from pain when he saw War¬ 
ren enter with Daniel Knott behind him. 

“Knott is come, sir, with news of Miss Sarti. I 
thought it best to bring him to you first.” 

Mr. Gilfil could not help going up to the old coach¬ 
man and wringing his hand; but he was unable to 
speak, and only motioned to him to take a chair, 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


161 


while Warren left the room. He hung upon Daniel's 
moon-face, and listened to his small piping voice, 
with the same solemn yearning expectation with 
which he would have given ear to the most awful 
messenger from the land of shades. 

“It war Dorkis, sir, would hev me come; but we 
knowed nothin’ o’ what’s happened at the Manor. 
She’s frightened out on her wits about Miss Sarti, 
an’ she would hev me saddle Blackbird this mornin’, 
an’ leave the ploughin’, to come an’ let Sir Christifer 
an’ my lady know. P’raps you’ve heared, sir, we 
don’t keep the Cross Keys at Sloppeter now; a uncle 
o’ mine died three ’ear ago, an’ left me a leggicy. 
He was bailiff to Squire Ramble, as hed them there 
big farms on his hans; an’ so we took a little farm 
o’ forty acres or thereabouts, becos Dorkis didn’t 
like the public when she got moithered' wi’ children. 
As pritty a place as iver you see, sir, w'i’ water at 
the back convenent for the cattle.” 

“For God’s sake,” said Maynard, “tell me what it 
is about Miss Sarti. Don’t stay to tell me anything 
else now.” 

“Well, sir,” said Knott' rather frightened by the 
parson’s vehemence, “she come t’ our house i’ the 
carrier’s cart o’ Wednesday, when it was welly * 2 nine 
o’clock at night; and Dorkis run out, for she heared 
the cart stop, an’ Miss Sarti throwed her arms roun’ 
Dorkis’s neck an’ says, ‘Tek me in, Dorkis, tek me 
in,’ an’ went off into a swoond, like. An’ Dorkis 
calls out to me—‘Dannel,’ she calls—an’ I run out 
and carried the young miss in, an’ she come roun’ 
arter a bit, an’ opened her eyes, and Dorkis got her 
to drink a spoonful o’ rum-an’-water—we’ve got some 
capital rum as we brought from the Cross Keys, and 

L Worried, fatigued, full of cares and worries (Eng. dial.) 

2 Well-nigh. 



162 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


Dorkis won’t let nobody drink it. She says she keeps 
it for sickness; but for my part, I think it’s a pity 
to drink good rum when you’re mouth’s out o’ taste; 
you may just as well hev doctor’s stuff. Howiver, 
Dorkis got her to bed, an’ there she’s lay iver sin’, 
stoopid like, an’ niver speaks, an’ on’y teks little 
bits an’ sups when Dorkis coaxes her. An’ we begun 
to be frightened, and we couldn’t think what had 
made her come away from the Manor, and Dorkis 
was afeared there was surnmat wrong. So this 
mornin’ she could hold no longer, an’ would hev no 
nay but I must come an’ see; an’ so I’ve rode twenty 
mile upo’ Blackbird, as thinks all the while he’s 
a-ploughin’, an’ turns sharp roun’, ivery thirrty 
yards, as if he was at the end of a furrow. I’ve hed 
a sore time wi’ him, I can tell you, sir.” 

“God bless you, Knott, for coming!” said Mr. Gil- 
fil, wringing the old coachman’s hand again. “Now 
go down and have something and rest yourself. You 
will stay here to-night, and by-and-by I shall come 
to you to learn the nearest way to your house. I 
shall get ready to ride there immediately, when I 
have spoken to Sir Christopher.” 

In an hour from that time Mr. Gilfil was gallop¬ 
ing on a stout mare towards the little muddy village 
of Callam, five miles beyond Sloppeter. Once more 
he saw some gladness in the afternoon sunlight; 
once more it was a pleasure to see the hedgerow trees 
flying past him, and to be conscious of a “good seat” 
while his black Kitty bounded beneath him, and the 
air whistled to the rhythm of her pace. Caterina 
was not dead; he had found her; his love and ten¬ 
derness and long-suffering seemed so strong, they 
must recall her to life and happiness. After that 
week of despair, the rebound was so violent that it 
carried his hopes at once as far as the utmost mark 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


163 


they had ever reached. Caterina would come to love 
him at last; she would be his. They had been car¬ 
ried through all that dark and weary way that she 
might know the depth of his love. How he would 
cherish her—his little bird with the timid bright 
eye, and the sweet throat that trembled with love 
and music! She would nestle against him, and the 
poor little breast which had been so ruffled and 
bruised should be safe for evermore. In the love of 
a brave and faithful man there is always a strain 
of maternal tenderness; he gives out again those 
beams of protecting fondness which were shed on 
him as he lay on his mother’s knee. 

It was twilight as he entered the village of Callam, 
and, asking a home-bound labourer the way to Daniel 
Knott’s, learned that it was by the church, which 
showed its stumpy ivy-clad spire on a slight eleva¬ 
tion of ground; a useful addition to the means of 
identifying that desirable homestead afforded by 
Daniel’s description—‘The prittiest place iver you 
see”—though a small cow-yard full of excellent ma¬ 
nure, and leading right up to the door, without any 
frivolous interruption from garden or railing, 
might perhaps have been enough to make that de¬ 
scription unmistakably specific. 

Mr. Gilfil had no sooner reached the gate leading 
into the cow-yard, than he was descried by a flaxen¬ 
haired lad of nine, prematurely invested with the 
toga virilis, 2 or smock-frock, who ran forward to 
let in the unusual visitor. In a moment Dorcas was 
at the door, the roses on her cheeks apparently all 
the redder for the three pair of cheeks which formed 


3 The toga was the distinctive outer garment of a Roman 
citizen, originally worn by both men and women, later con¬ 
fined to men. The toga virilis, toga of manhood, was as¬ 
sumed at fourteen in sign of manhood. 



164 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


a group round her, and for the very fat baby who 
stared in her arms, and sucked a long crust with 
calm relish. 

“Is it Mr. Gilfil, sir?” said Dorcas, curtsying low 
as he made his way through the damp straw, after 
tying up his horse. 

“Yes, Dorcas; I’m grown out of your knowledge. 
How is Miss Sarti?” 

“Just for all the world the same, sir, as I suppose 
Danners told you; for I reckon you’ve come from the 
Manor, though you’re come uncommon quick, to be 
sure.” 

“Yes, he got to the Manor about one o’clock, and 
I set off as soon as I could. She’s not worse, is she?” 

“No change, sir, for better or wuss. Will you 
please to walk in, sir? She lies there teckin’ no 
notice o’ nothin’, no more nor a baby as is on’y a 
wick old, an’ looks at me as blank as if she didn’t 
know me. 0 what can it be, Mr. Gilfil? How come 
she to leave the Manor? How’s his honour an’ my 
lady?” 

“In great trouble, Dorcas. Captain Wybrow, Sir 
Christopher’s nephew, you know, has died suddenly. 
Miss Sarti found him lying dead, and I think the 
shock has affected her mind.” 

“Eh, dear! that fine young gentleman as was to 
be th’ heir, as Dannel told me about. I remember 
seein’ him when he was a little un, a-visitin’ at the 
Manor. Well a-day, what a grief to his honour and 
my lady. But that poor Miss Tina—an’ she found 
him a-lyin’ dead? O dear, 0 dear!” 

Dorcas had led the way into the best kitchen as 
charming a room as best kitchens used to be in 
farmhouses which had no parlours—the fire reflected 
in a bright row of pewter plates and dishes; the 
sand-scoured deal tables so clean you longed to 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


165 


stroke them; the salt-coffer in one chimney-corner, 
and a three-cornered chair in the other, the walls 
behind handsomely tapestried with flitches of bacon, 
and the ceiling ornamented with pendant hams. 

“iSit ye down, sir—do,” said Dorcas, moving the 
three-cornered chair, “an’ let me get you somethin’ 
after your long journey. Here, Becky, come an’ tek 
the baby.” 

Becky, a red-armed damsel, emerged from the ad¬ 
joining back-kitchen, and possessed herself of baby, 
whose feelings or fat made him conveniently apa¬ 
thetic under the transference. 

“What’ll you please to tek, sir, as I can give you? 
I’ll get you a rasher o’ bacon i’ no time, an’ I’ve got 
some tea, or belike you’d tek a glass o’ rum-an’ 
water. I know we’ve got nothin’ as you’re use V 
eat and drink; but such as I hev, sir, I shall be 
proud to give you.” 

“Thank you, Dorcas; I can’t eat or drink any¬ 
thing. I’m not hungry or tired. Let us talk about 
Tina. Has she spoken at all?” 

“Niver since the fust words. ‘Dear Dorkis,’ says 
she, ‘tek me in;’ an’ then went off into a faint, an’ 
not a word has she spoken since. I get her t’ eat 
little bits an’ sups o’ things, but she teks no notice o’ 
nothin’. I’ve took up Bessie wi’ me now and then”— 
here Dorcas lifted to her lap a curly-headed little girl 
of three, who was twisting a corner of her mother’s 
apron, and opening round eyes at the gentleman— 
“folks ’ll tek notice o’ children sometimes when they 
won’t o’ nothin’ else. An’ we gathered the autumn 
crocuses out o’ th’ orchard, an’ Bessie carried ’em 
up in her hand, an’ put ’em on the bed. I knowed 
how fond Miss Tina was o’ flowers an’ them things, 
when she was a little un. But she looked at Bessie 
an’ the flowers just the same as if she didn’t see ’em. 


166 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


It cuts me to th’ heart to look at them eyes o’ hers: 
I think they’re bigger nor iver, an’ they look like my 
poor baby’s as died, when it got so thin—O dear, its 
little hands, you could see thro’ ’em. But I’ve great 
hopes if she was to see you, sir, as come from the 
Manor, it might bring back her mind, like.” 

Maynard had that hope too, but he felt cold mists 
of fear gathering round him after the few bright 
hours of joyful confidence which had passed since 
he first heard that Caterina was alive. The thought 
would urge itself upon him that her mind and body 
might never recover the strain that had been put 
upon them—that her delicate thread of life had al¬ 
ready nearly spun itself out. 

“Go now, Dorcas, and see how she is, but don’t 
say anything about my being here. Perhaps it would 
be better for me to wait till daylight before I see 
her, and yet it would be very hard to pass another 
night in this way.” 

Dorcas set down little Bessie, and went away. The 
three other children, including young Daniel in his 
smock-frock, were standing opposite to Mr. Gilfil, 
watching him still more shyly now they were without 
their mother’s countenance. He drew little Bessie 
towards him, and set her on his knee. She shook 
her yellow curls out of her eyes, and looked up at 
him as she said,— 

“Zoo tome to tee ze yady? Zoo mek her peak? 
What zoo do to her? Tiss her?” 

“Do you like to be kissed, Bessie?” 

“Det,” said Bessie, immediately ducking down her 
head very low, in resistance to the expected re¬ 
joinder. 

“We’ve got two pups,” said young Daniel, em¬ 
boldened by observing the gentleman’s amenities to- 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


167 


wards Bessie. '‘Shall I show 'em yer? One's got 
white spots.” 

“Yes, let me see them.” 

Daniel ran out, and presently reappeared with two 
blind puppies, eagerly followed by the mother, af¬ 
fectionate though mongrel, and an exciting scene 
was beginning when Dorcas returned and said,— 

“There’s niver any difference in her hardly. I 
think you needn’t wait, sir. She lies very still, as she 
al’ys does. I’ve put two candles i’ the room, so as 
she may see you well. You’ll please t’ excuse the 
room, sir, an’ the cap as she hes on; it’s one 
o’ mine.” 

Mr. Gilfil nodded silently, and rose to follow her 
upstairs. They turned in at the first door, their 
footsteps making little noise on the plaster floor. 
The red-checkered linen curtain were drawn at the 
head of the bed, and Dorcas had placed the candles 
on this side of the room, so that the light might not 
fall oppressively on Caterina’s eyes. When she had 
opened the door, Dorcas whispered, “I’d better leave 
you, sir, I think?” 

Mr. Gilfil motioned assent, and advanced beyond 
the curtain. Caterina lay with her eyes turned the 
other way, and seemed unconscious that any one had 
entered. Her eyes, as Dorcas had said looked larger 
than ever, perhaps because her face was thinner and 
paler, and her hair quite gathered away under one 
of Dorcas’s thick caps. The small hands, too, that 
lay listlessly on the outside of the bed-clothes, were 
thinner than ever. She looked younger than she 
really was, and any one seeing the tiny face and 
hands for the first time, might have thought they 
belonged to a little girl of twelve, who was being 
taken away from coming instead of past sorrow. 

When Mr. Gilfil advanced and stood opposite to 


168 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


her, the light fell full upon his face. A slight startled 
expression came over Caterina’s eyes; she looked at 
him earnestly for a few moments, then lifted up her 
hand as if to beckon him to stoop down towards her, 
and whispered, ‘‘Maynard!’’ 

He seated himself on the bed, and stooped down 
towards her. She whispered again— 

“Maynard, did you see the dagger?” 

He followed his first impulse in answering her, 
and it was a wise one. 

“Yes,” he whispered, “I found it in your pocket, 
and put it back again in the cabinet.” 

He took her hand in his and held it gently, waiting 
what she would say next. His heart swelled so with 
thankfulness that she had recognized him, he could 
hardly repress a sob. Gradually her eyes became 
softer and less intense in their gaze. The tears 
were slowly gathering, and presently some large hot 
drops rolled down her cheek. Then the flood-gates 
were opened, and the heart-easing stream gushed 
forth; deep sobs came; and for nearly an hour she 
lay without speaking, while the heavy icy pressure 
that withheld her misery from utterance was thus 
melting away. How precious those tears were to 
Maynard, who day after day had been shuddering 
at the continually recurring image of Tina with 
the dry scorching stare of insanity! 

By degrees the sobs subsided, she began to breathe 
calmly, and lay quiet with her eyes shut. Patiently 
Maynard sat, not heeding the flight of the hours, 
not heeding the old clock that ticked loudly on the 
landing. But when it was nearly ten, Dorcas, im¬ 
patiently anxious to know the result of Mr. Gilfil’s 
appearance, could not help stepping in on tip-toe. 
Without moving, he whispered in her ear to supply 
him with candles, se^ that the cow-boy had shaken 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


169 


down his mare, and go to bed—he would watch with 
Caterina—a great change had come over her. 

Before long, Tina’s lips began to move. “Maynard,” 
she whispered again. He leaned towards her, and 
she went on. 

“You know how wicked I am, then? You know 
what I meant to do with the dagger?” 

“Did you mean to kill yourself, Tina?” 

She shook her head slowly, and then was silent 
for a long while. At last, looking at him with solemn 
eyes, she whispered, “To kill him” 

“Tina, my loved one, you would never have done it. 
God saw your whole heart; He knows you would 
never harm a living thing. He watches over His 
children, and will not let them do things they would 
pray with their whole hearts not to do. It was the 
angry thought of a moment, and He forgives you.” 

She sank into silence again till it was nearly mid¬ 
night. The weary enfeebled spirit seemed to be 
making its slow way with difficulty through the 
windings of thought; and then she began to whisper 
again, it was in reply to Mayjnard’s words. 

“But I had had such wicked feelings for a long 
while. I was so angry, and I hated Miss Assher so, 
and I didn’t care what came to anybody, because I 
was so miserable myself. I was full of bad passions. 
No one else was ever so wicked.” 

“Yes, Tina, many are just as wicked. I often have 
very wicked feelings, and am tempted to do wrong 
things; but then my body is stronger than yours, 
and I can hide my feelings, and resist them better. 
They do not master me so. You have seeto the little 
birds when they are very young, and just begin to 
fly, how all their feathers are ruffled when they are 
frightened or angry; they have no power over them¬ 
selves left, and might fall into a pit from mer« 


170 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


fright. You were like one of those little birds. Your 
sorrow and suffering had taken such hold of you, 
you hardly knew what you did.” 

He would not speak long, lest he should tire her, 
and oppress her with too many thoughts. Long 
pauses seemed needful for her before she could con¬ 
centrate her feelings in short words. 

“But when I meant to do it,” was the next thing 
she whispered, “it was as bad as if I had done it.” 

“No, my Tina,” answered Maynard slowly, waiting 
a little between each sentence; “we mean to do 
wicked things that we never could do just as we 
mean to do good or clever things that we never 
could do. Our thoughts are often worse than we 
are, just as they are often better than we are. And 
God sees us as we are altogether, not in separate 
feelings or actions, as our fellow-men see us. We 
are always doing each other injustice, a;nd thinking 
better or worse of each other than we deserve, be¬ 
cause we only hear and see separate words and ac¬ 
tions. We don’t see each other’s whole nature. But 
God sees that you could not have committed that 
crime.” 

Caterina shook her head slowly, and was silent. 
After a while, 

“I don’t know,” she said; “I seemed to see him 
coming towards me, just as he would really have 
looked, and I meant—*1 meant to do it.” 

“But when you saw him—tell me how it was, 
Tina?” 

“I saw him lying on the ground, and thought he 
was ill. I don’t know how it was then; I forgot every¬ 
thing. I knelt down and spoke to him, and—and 
he took no notice of me, and his eyes were fixed, and 
I began to think he was dead.” 

“And you have never felt angry since?” 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


171 


“'O no, no; it is I who have been more wicked than 
any one, it is I who have bee)n wrong all through.” 

“No, my Tina; the fault has not all been yours; 
he was wrong; he gave you provocation. And wrong 
makes wrong. When people use us ill, we can hardly 
help having ill feeling towards them. But that second 
wrong is more excusable. I am more sinful than 
you, Tina; I have often had very bad feelings to¬ 
wards Captain Wybrow ; and if he had provoked me 
as he did you, I should perhaps have done something 
more wicked.” 

“0, it was not so wrong in him; he didn’t know 
how he hurt me. How was it likely he could love me 
as I loved him? And how could he marry a poor 
little thing like me?” 

Maynard made np reply to this, and there was 
again silence, till Tina said, 

“Then I was so deceitful; they didn’t know how 
wicked I was. Padroncello didn’t know; his good 
little monkey he used to call me; a+nd if he had 
known, 0 how naughty he would have thought me!” 

“My Tina, we have all our secret sins; and if we 
knew ourselves, we should not judge each other 
harshly. Sir Christopher himself has felt, since this 
trouble came upon him, that he has been too severe 
and obstinate.” 

In this way—in these broken confessions and an¬ 
swering words of comfort—the hours wore on, from 
the deep black night to the chill of early twilight, and 
from early twilight to the first yellow streak of 
mornihg parting the purple cloud. Mr. Gilfil felt 
as if in the long hours of that night the bond that 
united his love for ever and alone to Caterina had 
acquired fresh strength and sanctity. It is so with 
the human relations that rest on the deep emotional 
sympathy of affection: every new day and night of 


172 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


joy or sorrow is a new ground, a new consecration, 
for the love that is nourished by memories as well 
as hopes—the love to which perpetual repetition is 
not a weariness but a want, and to which a separate 
joy is the beginning of pain. 

The cocks began to crow; the gate swung; there 
was a tramp of footsteps in the yard, and Mr. Gilfil 
heard Dorcas stirring. These sounds seemed to af¬ 
fect Caterina, for she looked anxiously at him and 
said, “Maynard, are you going away?” 

“No, I shall stay here at Callam until you are bet¬ 
ter, and then you will go away too.” 

“Never to the Manor again, 0 no! I shall live 
poorly, and get my own bread.” 

“Well, dearest, you shall do what you would like 
best. But I wish you could go, to sleep now. Try* 
to rest quietly, a)nd by-and-by you will perhaps sit 
up a little. God has kept you in life in spite of all 
this sorrow; it will be sinful not to try and make 
the best of His gift. Dear Tina, you will try;—and 
little Bessie brought you some crocuses once; you 
didn’t notice the poor little thing; but you will no¬ 
tice her when she comes again, will you not?” 

“I will try,” whispered Tina humbly, and then 
closed her eyes. 

By the time the sun was above the horizon, scat¬ 
tering the clouds, and shining with pleasant morn¬ 
ing warmth through the little leaded window, Cat¬ 
erina was asleep. Maynard gently loosed the tiny 
hand, cheered Dorcas with the good news, and made 
his way to the village inn, with a thankful heart 
that Tina had been so far herself again. Evidently 
the sight of him had blended naturally with the 
memories in which her mind was absorbed, and she 
had been led on to an unburthejning of herself that 
might be the beginning of a complete restoration. 


Mr. Gilfil's Love Story 


173 


But her body was so emeebled—her soul so bruised— 
that the utmost tenderness and care would be neces¬ 
sary. The next thing to be done was to send tidings 
to Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel; then to write 
and summon his sister, under whose care he had de¬ 
termined to place Caterina. The Manor, even if she 
had been wishing to return thither, would, he knew, 
be the most undesirable home for her at present: 
every scene, every object there, was associated with 
still unallayed anguish. If she were domesticated 
for a time with his mild gentle sister, who had a 
peaceful home and a prattling little boy, Tina might 
attach herself anew to life, and recover, partly at 
least, the shock that had been given to her consti¬ 
tution. When he had written his letters and taken 
a hasty breakfast, he was soon in his saddle again, 
on his way to Sloppeter, where he would post them, 
and seek out a medical man, to whom he might con¬ 
fide the moral causes of Caterina’s enfeebled condi¬ 
tion. 


CHAPTER XX 

In less than a week from that time, Caterina was 
persuaded to travel in a comfortable carriage, under 
the care of Mr. Gilfil and his sister, Mrs. Heron, 
whose soft blue eyes atnd mild manners were very 
soothing to the poor bruised child—the more so as 
they had an air of sisterly equality which was quite 
new to her. Under Lady CheverePs uncaressing au¬ 
thoritative goodwill, Tina had always retained a cer¬ 
tain constraint and awe; and there was a sweetness 
before unknown in having a young and gentle woman, 
like an elder sister, bending over her caressingly, 
and speaking in low loving tones. 

Maynard was almost angry with himself for feel¬ 
ing happy while Tina’s mind and body were still 
trembling on the verge of irrecoverable decline; but 
the new delight of acting as her guardian angel, of 
being with her every hour of the day, of devising 
everything for her comfort, of watching for a ray 
of returning interest in her eyes, was too absorbing 
to leave room for alarm or regret. 

On the third day the carriage drove up to the door 
of Foxholm Parsonage, where the Rev. Arthur Heron 
presented himself on the door-step, eager to greet 
his returning Lucy, and holding by the hand a broad- 
chested tawny-haired boy of five, who was smacking 
a miniature hunting-whip with great vigour. 

Nowhere was there a lawn more smooth-shaven, 
walks better swept, or a porch more prettily fes- 
toioned with creepers, than at Foxholm Parsonage, 
standing snugly sheltered by beeches and chestnuts 
half-way down the pretty green hill which was sur¬ 
mounted by the church, and overlooking a village 
that straggled at its ease among pastures and mead¬ 
ows, surrounded by wild hedgerows and broad shad- 
[ 174 ] 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


175 


owing trees, as yet unthreatened by improved meth¬ 
ods of farming. 

Brightly the fire shone in the great parlour, and 
brightly in the little pink bedroom, which was to be 
Caterina’s, because it looked away from the church¬ 
yard, and on to a farm homestead, with its little 
cluster of beehive ricks, and placid groups of cows, 
and cheerful matin 1 sounds of healthy labour. Mrs. 
Heron, with the instinct of an impressionable woman, 
had written to her husband to have this room pre¬ 
pared for Caterina. Contented speckled hens, indus¬ 
triously scratching for the rarely-found corn, may 
sometimes do more for a sick heart than a grove of 
nightingales; there is something irresistibly calm¬ 
ing in the unsentimental cheeriness of top-knotted 
pullets, unpetted sheep-dogs, and patient cart-horses 
enjoying a drink of muddy water. 

In such a home as this parsonage, a nest of com¬ 
fort, without any of the stateliness that would carry 
a suggestion of Cheverel Manor, Mr. Gilfil was not 
unreasonable in hoping that Caterina might grad¬ 
ually shake off the haunting vision of the past, and 
recover trom the languor and feebleness which were 
the physical sign of that vision’s blighting presence. 
The next thing to be done was to arrange an ex¬ 
change of duties with Mr. Heron’s curate, that May¬ 
nard might be constantly near Caterina, and watch 
over her progress. She seemed to like him to be 
with her, to look uneasily for his return; and though 
she seldom spoke to him, she was most contented 
when he sat by her, and held her tiny hand in his 
large protecting grasp. But Oswald, alias Ozzy, the 
broad-chested boy, was perhaps her most beneficial 
companion. With something of his uncle’s person, 
he had inherited also his uncle’s early taste for a 


^lorning. 



176 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


domestic menagerie, and was very imperative in de¬ 
manding Tina’s sympathy in the welfare of his 
guinea-pigs, squirrels, and dormice. With him she 
seemed now and then to have gleams of her child¬ 
hood coming athwart the leaden clouds, and many 
hours of winter went by the more easily for being 
spent in Ozzy’s nursery. 

Mrs. Heron was not musical, and had no instru¬ 
ment; but one of Mr. Gilfil’s cares was to procure a 
harpsichord, and have it placed in the drawing¬ 
room, always open, in the hope that some day the 
spirit of music would be reawakened in Caterina, 
and she would be attracted towards the instrument. 
But the winter was almost gone by, and he had wait¬ 
ed in vain. The utmost improvement in Tina had 
not gone beyond passiveness and acquiescence—a 
quiet, graceful smile, compliance with Oswald’s 
whims, and an increasing consciousness of what was 
being said and done around her. Sometimes she 
would take up a bit of woman’s work, but she seemed 
too languid to persevere in it; her fingers soon drop¬ 
ped, and she relapsed into motionless reverie. 

At last—it was one of those bright days in the end 
of February, when the sun is shining with a promise 
of approaching spring. Maynard had been walking 
with her and Oswald round the garden to look at 
the snowdrops, and she was resting on the sofa after 
the walk. Ozzy, roaming about the room in quest of 
a forbidden pleasure, came to the harpsichord, and 
struck the handle of his whip on a deep bass note. 

The vibration rushed through Caterina like an 
electric shock: it seemed as if at that instant a new 
soul were entering into her, a<nd filling her with a 
deeper, more significant life. She looked round, rose 
from the sofa, and walked to the harpsichord. In a 
moment her fingers were wandering with their old 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


177 


sweet method among the keys, and her soul was float¬ 
ing in its true 2 3 familiar element of delicious sound, 
as the water-plant that lies withered and shrunken 
on the ground expands into freedom and beauty 
when once more bathed in its native flood. 

Maynard thanked God. An active power was re¬ 
awakened, and must make a new epoch in Caterina’s 
recovery. 

Presently there were low liquid notes blending 
themselves with the harder tones of the instrument, 
and gradually the pure voice swelled into predomi¬ 
nance. Little Ozzy stood in the middle of the room, 
with his mouth open and his legs very wide apart, 
struck with something like awe at this new power in 
“Tin-Tin,” as he called her, whom he had been ac¬ 
customed to think of as a playfellow not at all clever, 
and very much in need of his instruction on many 
subjects. A genie soaring with broad wings out of 
his milk-jug would not have been more astonishing. 

Caterina was singing the very air from the Orfeo 
which we heard her singing so many months ago at 
the beginning of her sorrows. It was Ho perduto, 
Sir Christopher’s favourite, and its notes seemed to 
carry on their wings all the tenderest memories of 
her life, when Cheverel Manor was still an un¬ 
troubled home. The long happy days of childhood 
and girlhood recovered all their rightful predomi¬ 
nance over the short interval of sin and sorrow. 

She paused, and burst into tears—the first tears 
she had shed since she had been at Foxholm. May¬ 
nard could not help hurrying towards her, putting 
his arm round her, and leaning down to kiss her hair. 

2 Familiar is here used in the somewhat rare sense of 
native, of the family; i. e., sound was the element in which 

Caterina felt most at home. 



178 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


She nestled to him, and put up her little mouth to be 
kissed. 

The delicate-tendrilled plant must have something 
to cling to. The soul that was born anew to music 
was born anew to love. 



CHAPTER XXI 


On the 30th of May 1790, a very pretty sight was 
seen by the villagers assembled near the door of 
Foxholm church. The sun was bright upon the dewy 
grass, the air was alive with the murmur of bees 
and the trilling of birds, the bushy blossoming chest¬ 
nuts and the foamy flowering hedgerows seemed to 
be crowding round to learn why the church-bells 
were ringing so merrily, as Maynard Gilfil, his face 
bright with happiness, walked out of the old Gothic 
doorway with Tina on his arm. The little face was 
still pale, and there was a subdued melancholy in it, 
as of one who sups with friends for the last time, 
and has his ear open for the signals that will call 
him away. But the tiny hand rested with the pres¬ 
sure of contented affection on Maynard’s arm, and 
the dark eyes met his downward glance with timid 
answering love. 

There was no train of bridesmaids; only pretty 
Mrs. Heron leaning on the arm of a dark-haired 
young man hitherto unknown in Foxholm, and hold¬ 
ing by the other hand little Ozzy, who exulted less 
in his new velvet cap and tunic, than in the notion 
that he was bridesman to Tin-Tin. 

Last of all came a couple whom the villagers eyed 
yet more eagerly than the bride and bridegroom: a 
fine old gentleman, who looked round with keen 
glances that cowed the conscious scapegraces among 
them, and a stately lady in blue-and-white silk robes, 
who must surely be like Queen Charlotte. 8 

“Well, that theer’s whut I coal a pictur,” said 
old “Mester” Ford, a true Staffordshire patriarch, 
who leaned on a stick and held his head very much 

Charlotte Sophia, 1744-1818, wife of George III, and 
queen of England from 1761-1818. 

[179] 



180 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


on one side, with the air of a man who had little hope 
of the present generation, but would at all events 
give it the benefit of his criticism. “Th’ yoong men 
noo-a-deys, the’r poor squashy 4 things—the’ looke 
well anoof, but the’ woon’t wear, the’ woon’t wear. 
Theer’s neer un ’ll carry his ’ears like that Sir 
Cris’fer Chuvrell.” 

“’Ull bet ye two pots,” 5 said another of the seniors, 
“as that yoongster a-walkin’ wi’ th’ parson’s wife ’ll 
be Sir Cris’fer’s son—he,’ fevours him.” 

“Nay, yae’ll bet that wi’ as big a fule as yersen; 
hae’s noo son at oall. As I oonderstan’, hae’s the 
nevey as is t’ heir th’ esteate. The coochman as puts 
oop at th’ White Hoss tellt me as theer war another 
nevey, a dell 6 finer chap t’ looke at nor this un, as 
died in a fit, oall on a soodden, an’ soo this here 
yoong un’s got upo’ th’ perch istid.” 

At the church gate Mr. Bates was standing in a 
new suit, ready to speak words of good omen as the 
bride and bridegroom approached. He had come all 
the way from Cheverel Manor on purpose to see Miss 
Tina happy once more, and would have been in a state 
of unmixed joy but for the inferiority of the wed¬ 
ding nosegays to what he could have furnished from 
the garden at the Manor. 

“God A’maighty bless ye both, an’ send ye long 
laife an’ happiness,” were the good gardener’s rath¬ 
er tremulous words. 

“Thank you, uncle Bates; always remember Tina,” 
said the sweet low voice, which fell on Mr. Bates’s 
ear for the last time. 

The wedding journey was to be a circuitous route 

“‘They are poor unripe, immature, foolish things.” 

*Pots means “a pot of liquor.” “I will bet you two» 
glasses of ale,” is what the old fellow is saying. 

a A great deal. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


181 


to Shepperton, where Mr. Gilfil had been for sev¬ 
eral months inducted 7 as .vicar. This small living 
had been given him through the interest ,of an old 
friend who had some claim on the gratitude of the 
Oldinport family; and it was a satisfaction both 
to Maynard and Sir Christopher that a home to 
whifch he might take Caterina had thus readily pre¬ 
sented itself at a distance from Cheverel Manor. 
For it had never yet been thought safe that she 
should revisit the scene of her sufferings, her health 
continuing too delicate to encourage the slightest 
risk of painful excitement. In a year or two, per¬ 
haps, by the time old Mr. Crichley, the rector of 
Cumbermoor, should have' left a world of gout, and 
when Caterina would very likely be a happy moth¬ 
er, Maynard might safely take up his abode at Cum¬ 
bermoor, and Tina would feel nothing but content at 
seeing a new “little black-eyed monkey” run¬ 
ning up and down the gallery and gardens of the 
Manor. A mother dreads no memories—those shad¬ 
ows have all melted away in the dawn of baby’s 
smile. 

In these hopes, and in the enjoyment of Tina’s 
nestling affection, Mr. Gilfil tasted a few months of 
perfect happiness. She had come to lean entirely 
on his love, and to find life sweet for his sake. Her 
continual languor and want of active interest was 
a natural consequence of bodily feebleness, and the 
prospect of her becoming a mother was a new 
ground for hoping the best. 

But the delicate plant had been too deeply bruised, 
and in the struggle to put forth a blossom it died. 

Tina died, and Maynard Gilfil’s love went with her 
into deep silence for evermore. 


7 Put into possession of. 



EPILOGUE 


This is Mr. Gilfil’s love-story, which lay far back 
from the time when he sat, worn and grey, by his 
lonely fireside in Shepperton Vicarage. Rich brown 
locks, passionate love, and deep early sorrow, 
strangely different as they seem from the scanty 
white hairs, the apathetic content, and the unexpect¬ 
ant acquiescence of old age, are but part of the same 
life’s journey, as the bright Italian plains, with the 
sweet Addio 1 of their beckoning maiden-, are part of 
the same day’s travel that brings us to the other 
side of the mountain, between the sombre rocky 
walls and among the guttural voices of the Valais. 

To those who were familiar only with the grey¬ 
haired Vicar, jogging leisurely along on his old 
chestnut cob, it would perhaps have been hard to 
believe that he had ever been the Maynard Gilfil 
who, with a heart full of passion and tenderness, 
had urged his black Kitty to her swiftest gallop on 
the way to Callam, or that the old gentleman of 
caustic tongue, and bucolic tastes, and sparing hab¬ 
its, had known all the deep secrets of devoted love, 
had struggled through its days and nights of an¬ 
guish, and trembled under its unspeakable joys. 
And indeed the Mr. Gilfil of those late Shepperton 
days had more of the knots and ruggednesses of 
poor human nature than there lay any clear hint 
of in the open-eyed loving Maynard. But it is with 
men as with trees: if you lop off their finest branches, 

’Good-bye. The Italian language is very melodious. 
Valais is a canton or state in the southwestern part of 
Switzerland, adjoining France and Italy. The German 
element is important in the population; hence the voices 
of Valais are harsher and more guttural than those of 
Italy. 



Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


183 


into which they were pouring their young life-juice, 
the wounds will be healed over with some rough 
boss, some odd excrescence; and what might have 
been a grand tree expanding into liberal shade, is 
but a whimsical misshapen trunk. Many an irritat¬ 
ing fault, many an unlovely oddity, has come of a 
hard sorrow, which has crushed and maimed the 
nature just when it was expanding into plenteous 
beauty; and the trivial erring life which we visit 
with our harsh blame, may be but as the unsteady 
motion of a man whose best limb is withered. 

And so the dear old Vicar, though he had some¬ 
thing of the knotted whimsical character of the poor 
lopped oak, had yet been sketched out by nature as 
a noble tree. The heart of him was sound, the grain 
was of the finest, and in the grey-haired man who 
filled his pocket with sugar-plums for the little 
children, whose most biting words were directed 
against the evil-doing of the rich man, and who, 
with all his social pipes and slipshod talk, never 
sank below the highest level of his parishioners* re¬ 
spect, there was the main trunk of the same brave, 
faithful, tender nature that had poured out the finest, 
freshest forces of its life-current in a first and only 
love— the love of Tina. 


SUGGESTIONS TO TEACHERS 


1. Descriptive Element. 

The descriptive element in a story is that which 
gives us pictures of the places where the actions 
of a story happen; it is that which makes us see 
the people who appear in the narrative. George 
Eliot has told us that from the beginning she felt 
sure she could do this type of writing. The student 
may ask himself: “Is there too much description in 
this story?” “Does it anywhere interfere with 
the progress of the story?” “Would I recognize 
Cheverel Manor if I were to see it?” 

When the student has finished the story, he may 
ask: “What do I remember about Caterina’s ap¬ 
pearance; abont Captain Wybrow’s?” “If I were an 
artist hired to illustrate this book, what sort ot 
picture would I paint of Mr. Gilfil or of Sir Chris¬ 
topher?” 

Better still, perhaps, as the student reads the 
story he may make a list of the details given in the 
tale of the personal appearance of the characters, 
Mr. Gilfil as a young man, as an old man; Beatrice 
as she appeared for the first dinner at the manor; 
the servants as they sat around the fire while Mr. 
Bates sang “Roy’s Wife of Aldivalloeh.” The lists 
may possibly be used as material for descriptive 
compositions by the students. 

2. Characterization. 

We know that George Eliot’s greatest interest was 
in characterization. Two general questions may be 
asked in studying this element of the story: “What 
sort of people are these in Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story , 
story people, or real, everyday people?” and “How 
does the author present these people?” 

For an answer to the second of these questions, 
let us take Mr. Gilfil as he is shown in chapter one, 
[184] 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


185 


an old man. Eliot uses the following methods: 

(a) She tells the effect his death had on others, 
lets us see the genuine grief which his parish¬ 
ioners felt. 

(b) Allows him to talk and act by (1) telling us 
of his meeting with Dame Fripp; and (2) tell¬ 
ing us how he used the old, yellowed sermons 
when he preached. 

(c) Allows the other characters to talk about him; 
Mr. Hackit relates the quarrel between Mr. 
Gilfil and Mr. Oldinport. 

(d) Lets Mr. Gilfil talk and make simple gifts to 
little children. 

(e) Shows how Mr. Gilfil is at ease with both farm¬ 
ers and gentle folk. 

(f) Compares the sort of sermons he preached with 
those of Mr. Barton. 

(g) Lets us see Mr. Gilfil at home, his pipe, his 
dog, his economy, his drink. 

(h) Describes the closed room; and tells us of Mr. 
Gilfil’s love for his wife who died many years 
before. 

(i) Throughout the chapter gives us bits of di¬ 
rect description of his appearance, and direct 
analysis of his character: 

(1) The horse he rode. 

(2) The sort of religion he preached. 

By these methods George Eliot makes the reader, 
when he has finished the first chapter, become well 
acquainted with Mr. Gilfil. 

Eliot uses these methods with the other persons 
in the story. /Sometimes she uses all of them, some¬ 
times only a part. Lady Assher is not an important 
character in the story. Forty years ago she had 
been Sir Christopher’s first sweetheart. Lady Chev- 
erel is inclined to be a little jealous, but one looks at 


186 


Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story 


Lady Assher as she now is, and all Lady Cheverel’s 
fears vanish. Then Lady Assher talks for half a 
page. Her daughter stops her lest she say some¬ 
thing inappropriate. That is all we are told, but it 
is enough for us to know that the old lady is a gos¬ 
sipy, fat, faded blonde. 

Other characters in the story will repay study in 
this way. By no other means will students realize 
so well what George Eliot was trying to do in this 
and other novels. 

3 Structure. 


By structure we mean the way a story is put to¬ 
gether. The study of this element may be done first 
by answering the following questions: 
r l) What parts of the story are introductory and 
explanatory? 

(a) How are chapter one and the epilogue 
connected with the rest of the story? 
Where and when does the love story begin? 
What are the steps in the progress of the story? 
At what point are we most interested in the 
fortunes of Caterina? of Mr. Gilfil? 

How does the author keep our interest up after 
the death of Captain Wybrow? 

What is the conclusion of the story? 

Help in answering these questions may be found 
in the following time-scheme for the story: 

Chapter 1: About 1827; after Mr. Gilfil’s death; 
Mr. Gilfil as an old man. 

June 21, 1788; the group at Cheverel 
Manor. From Chapter 1 we know that 
in 1788 Mr. Gilfil was about 28 and 
Caterina about 18. 

1773; the year of Caterina’s adoption. 
1773 to summer of 1788; Caterina’s 
life at the Manor during these years. 


( 2 ) 

(3) 

(4) 

(5) 

( 6 ) 


Chapter 2 


Chapter 3: 
Chapter 4: 


Mr. Gilfii/s Love Story 


187 


Chapters 5 to 20: Summer of 1788 to February, 
1789. Main events of story. 

Chapter 21: May 30, 1790; marriage of Mr. Gilfil 
and Caterina. 

Epilogue: Returns to 1827, the time of chapter 1. 
4. Other Methods of Study. 

The important objective any teacher has in 
studying with a class a piece of literature is to 
arouse and not stifle interest. Any method which 
will create interest should be used. Study will 
never be synonymous with play, but study need not 
be drudgery. And there are, of course, methods of 
approach other than those which have been sug¬ 
gested that may cause students to want to read 
literature. 

The dramatization, for example, of Mr. Gilfil’s 
Love Story, will furnish not an easy problem. How 
much, for instance, of the first two chapters could 
be used in a play? How would the events told 
about in chapter three be handled in a play? 

Again, the heroine is a singer, familiar with Ital¬ 
ian opera. Perhaps some of the members of the 
class will wish to learn more about the history of 
the lyric drama. One of the songs Caterina sings 
has been placed on the Victor records. What other 
songs from old operas have been made into records? 

Sir Christopher spent a fortune in turning a plain 
brick, English country house into a Gothic mansion. 
What is Gothic architecture? How does it differ 
from Classic architecture? Where did it get its 
name? What are its best examples? Where do we 
find modern imitations? 

And of those interested in George Eliot these 
questions may be asked: How in this story does she 
show her knowledge of life in the country? What 
has she read? How does she teach the lessons of 


188 


Mr. Gilfil's Love Story 


tolerance and love, self-control and renunciation? 

Whatever method is used, let it be one which will 
show that Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story is a good yarn. 

If the student wishes to make a detailed study 
of the structure of Mr. Gilftt’s Love Story, he will 
help himself greatly by carrying out for the remain¬ 
ing chapters the analysis of chapter 1 as given: 


Chapter 1 


Chapter 2 Chapter 3 


Time 

1827 or 28 

At the end of the 
chapter we are taken 
to 1788, the date of 
the events of the 
story. 



Places 

Towns and neighbor¬ 
hood of Shepperton 
and Knebley. 

Mr. Gilfil’s home, the 
vicarage. 

Detailed description 
of one room in the 
home. 



Charac¬ 

ters 

Mr. Gilfil, Mrs. Hig¬ 
gins, Mrs. Parrot, 
Dame Fripp, Mrs. 
Hackit, Mr. Pilgrim, 
Tommy Bond, Bessie 
Parrot, Mr. Bond, 
Mrs. Patten, Master 
Tom Stokes, Mr. Bar¬ 
ton, Martha, David, 
and Mrs. Gilfil. 



Events 

Expressions of sor¬ 
row in Shepperton 
and Knebley for the 
death of Mr. Gilfil. 
Episodes from his 
life showing his 
character. 




Martha dusts the 
room once occupied 
by Mrs. Gilfil. 























































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